


And I Am Always with You

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Brainwashing, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Gen, Gore, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:44:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 55
Words: 90,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tries to reach out to Steve, but he can’t feel his arm. It’s too cold. Everything is cold save for his blood and Steve’s smile.</p><p>Long after Bucky forgets his own name, he remembers "Steve."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [И я всегда с тобой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2751071) by [Kana_Go](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kana_Go/pseuds/Kana_Go)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prompt from the Captain America kink meme, in which Bucky hallucinates Steve's presence after the fall from the train and onward through his reprogramming by HYDRA. So basically, a world of sad Bucky and hallucinatory Steve feels. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> A huge thank you to [Lady_Clow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Clow/pseuds/Lady_Clow) and [Kana_Go](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kana_Go/pseuds/Kana_Go) for assisting in the Russian translations in this fic. Without their assistance, it would have been a horrible mess of Google translate gibberish.

The fall is the first thing Bucky loses, lying in the snow. It won’t be the last.

He is hanging from the train, Steve shouting for him, and he is in the cold, staring up at the sky. It isn’t the blink of an eye and it isn’t a split second. It’s instantaneous, one reel of film spliced to another. His mind might make that comparison if it remembered the word film, if it were capable of doing anything but drifting in and out and hurting. 

The pain ebbs and flows: sharp and cold and stabbing, tears in his eyes that soon freeze on his face, then a dull ache down to the bones—not all the bones ache, some are gone, and if he could focus he’d panic—before the cycle starts again and the snow doesn’t numb a thing.

Other memories begin to leak like the blood welling out of everywhere, bubbling up around his nose and in his throat with each shuddering, shallow breath, collecting at the back of his head and making the pounding, scrambling headache all the worse. He’s losing the train now, the name of the first girl he dated and the dress she wore when they went out, the World’s Fair, the time strapped to Zola’s table, the taste of his mother’s meatloaf, the faces of half of the Howling Commandos. The name of the boy who got stage fright and puked on Bucky’s shoes in the third grade Christmas pageant. The toppings on a Coney dog.

They drift away like snowflakes, but the snow here isn’t soft, it’s hard, digging into his torn up flesh like tiny knives, shards of ice and shrieking winds shredding battered skin. The cold slows the blood, but there’s no other reprieve. It feels as if his skin is shrinking, crystallizing, like his body is too broken and jumbled to be contained now, about to tear through and go to pieces on the ground. He can’t remember why he’s on the ground. All he can remember is the gun Steve threw to him, Steve saving him.

“Steve…”

Things go dark, numb, and he can’t be sure if he’s sleeping or if a part of his brain is shutting down, frost-bitten, dead. But his eyes do open, maybe hours later, maybe weeks, and when they do, Steve is there.

“Bucky,” he says, and his voice sounds like things Bucky can remember, drinking together or walking around at a dance hall or not making bloody icicles in the snow. “When I said I’d look after you from now on, I didn’t mean you should _test_ that.”

Bucky smiles, a mouthful of teeth stained red, and it hurts. He tries to reach out to Steve, but he can’t feel his arm. It’s too cold. Everything is cold save for his blood and Steve’s smile. “Took you…long enough…to deliver…ya punk,” he manages, feeling his ribs clink around inside with each word. “I’d…say I’m…too proud…to…ask for…a piggy back…ride, but…” He tries to shrug and holds in a scream. Maybe he doesn’t hold it. His body feels full of holes and maybe it just found an out that didn’t travel through his throat.

“Can’t help you there, Buck,” Steve says, and of course he can’t, Bucky’s almost twice Steve’s size, why had he thought otherwise? It feels like something ought to have changed, but everything feels wrong now, and Steve’s always been the scrawny one; the cold must be getting to him even more than he thought to believe that status quo’s shifted. “You’re gonna have to move yourself. You’ve got to, okay? You need to get outta the elements.”

Steve is smiling, but it’s the smile he wears when he tries to shrug off an asthma attack or act like having his face pounded into the dirt isn’t a big deal.

Bucky tries.

Tries harder than anything in his life—more than he tried to make Steve smile after the first army rejection, more than he tried to win at that rigged ring toss from the fair when they were kids, more than he tried to avoid whatever did this to him, probably—and he lasts half a second before he’s sobbing and collapsed. One arm is so broken it feels like a sock full of marbles. The other arm he can’t feel. And that’s without getting into everything else. “I can’t,” he gasps, and he can’t look at Steve, can’t bear to let him down when he’s already made such a mess. “I’m sorry, Steve, I can’t—”

“It’s okay.” Bucky can see Steve’s hand on his face but he can’t feel it, and he can’t decide if that’s a blessing that spares him more pain or the worst part of everything happening. “It’s okay. The guys are gonna find us. We’ll be laughing this off over a round before you know it.”

The dark slips in before Bucky can protest, then slips out, and there and back again and again. He can’t tell if the spells of darkness last seconds or hours. Steve is there whenever he wakes, sometimes as Bucky has always known him and sometimes taller and broader, but always holding vigil over Bucky’s broken body.

“You…sure this isn’t payback…for Coney Island?” he asks, voice hoarse from disuse, and Steve smiles again. He’s always smiling, but each smile says a different thing.

“Maybe a little.”

“Steve,” he says, maybe minutes later. Maybe days. “I can’t...feel my arm.”

“I know.” There’s no smile in his voice at the words. Bucky’s eyes are on his own body, the numb arm blocked from his view. He can’t turn his head to see, not without screaming again.

“Steve. Don’t…sugarcoat it, okay? Tell me…straight. Is it gone?”

Steve says yes without saying anything, and the last thing Bucky wants is to make Steve feel guilty about telling him, but there are tears on his face again and he can’t wipe them away, let alone stop them.

“Not all of it,” Steve offers. “Hey, listen, Howard can make flying cars. He’ll think of something. He’ll—I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid. You…saved me.” He can’t remember the fall or what caused it. But he remembers Steve’s rescue, remembers it wasn’t the first time. Nothing that happened after could make this Steve’s fault. Here he is, dying in the snow, and all Bucky’s concerned about is how much the sight will traumatize his friend.

And maybe if it’ll hurt the whole time, but that one just a little.

There are sounds in the distance and his mind goes to wolves, because it would be just their luck. But Steve is looking into the distance, smiling, practically glowing. “Hear that, Buck? You see? They’re coming for us. They’ll find us. Trust me, you’re gonna be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [Kana_Go's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kana_Go/pseuds/Kana_Go) art of this chapter here: [Fall](http://kanago.deviantart.com/art/Fall-499471246).


	2. Chapter 2

It’s hard to make out faces, because the snow and wind are cutting into his eyes as much as they’re slicing up the rest of him, and every time he’s dragged along the ice there are new tears to further blur things, but from what he can hear muttered, Bucky doubts they’ve been found by the Howling Commandos. Not unless all their teammates have taken up speaking Russian as, what, a joke? He can’t see the punch line. Can’t see much of anything.

Except Steve.

He sees Steve clear as day, walking alongside him, still wearing that big dopey good old American boy grin that might be endearing if it weren’t so inappropriate. Hell, it’s still endearing. Bucky tries to shake his head, clear his thoughts. They’ve been captured, they have to be—who else but HYDRA would be wandering around this frozen wasteland?—and they need an out, not an admiration of Steve’s pearly whites.

Damn, but they are white. Was that the serum too?

He succeeds in moving his head and then, immediately after, in letting out a shriek so loud Bucky braces himself for an avalanche to come crashing down around them. Tries to brace himself. His body isn’t listening to his brain.

They stop moving, and someone’s hands are on his face, tilting his head until he’s staring up at the sky again, and the first scream took so much out of him that all he can manage is a hoarse little gasp the second time around. “Be still,” the voice says, accented, and he wonders why he can feel these hands when he couldn’t feel Steve’s. Hardly seems fair. “We will help you.”

They’re moving again and Bucky blinks, clearing his eyes a little as the stranger stands up and Steve is over him again, bending down, not bothering to look where he’s walking. “It’s not gonna help us get out of this if you break your own neck,” he admonishes, and Bucky thinks the same applies to Steve because tromping around on ice blindly is just begging for an injury, but his mind and his mouth keep drifting out of sync and so he doesn’t say so. And he’s not sure if Steve’s capable of tripping now that he’s become the embodiment of the American dream. Probably is, but knowing him, he’d make that look endearing too.

“You should go,” Bucky slurs. Steve’s not injured, not visibly— _please please please don’t let him be hurt, not from trying to save me, please_ —and he could take out all of these guys with a swing of the shield—wait. The shield. It’s not strapped to Steve’s back, and Bucky’s confused, because wasn’t it there before? Is all the blood pushing on his brain making him lose his damn mind? Where is it, then? Bucky strains his memory and faintly remembers picking up the shield, firing a gun…

This is _his_ fault. He had the shield, something happened, and now here they are. Who else’s fault could it be? And now look. They’re here and Steve’s not going to leave him, going to let himself be taken like a damn fool, and there’s no one to blame for it but Bucky. His eyes are wet again. He’s twice the burden Steve could ever have been before the war, hell, a hundred times. Steve was never a burden, never useless, dead weight.

Dead doesn’t sound too bad right now. Probably wouldn’t hurt. Probably wouldn’t feel guilty. And then Steve would be free to go without this broken body holding him back.

“Oh, please.” Steve is still all smiles, and that hurts the most. “And leave you to fend for yourself with these guys? Your Russian’s atrocious, Bucky. And I know how much you hate borscht.”

“Such an idiot,” Bucky mutters. He isn’t sure if he means Steve or himself.

He knows what will come next, though his memories of it are fragmented now, clouded through a film of blood. He remembers the straps of the table, the injections, the pain that flows through the veins, circulating, burning, until he’s praying for his own death. He wonders if they’ll bother to fix him up before they start this time. He bets they will. HYDRA’s a special sort of sick; they only shows kindness when it’s the cruelest thing they can do.

“James Barnes,” he gasps. “Sergeant. 32557241. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241.” His voice is stammering, faint, but he keeps it up like a rosary. He has to start now, has to brace himself for what’s coming or he’ll go to pieces, and he can’t afford that. It isn’t just his own life on the line this time.

And since this is his fault, the least he can do is take it without breaking.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he can hear Steve murmur over his own litanies. “It’ll be okay.”

Once they’ve arrived at whatever location will hold them, the only way Bucky can tell inside from outside is that the wind is quieter. It’s freezing, wet, and just as hopeless, and with his eyes half-blinded by tears, his mind preoccupied with using all its strength to recite “James Barnes, sergeant, 32557241,” he can hardly focus on any other differences that may exist.

His clothing is cut away, wounds dressed, bones set—they shove depressors wrapped in cotton gauze into his mouth to silence him, and over the ringing in his ears, he can just make out “You’re going to be fine, Bucky, you’ll be fine”—and something is injected that burns as it goes in, a new wave of pain amidst a thrashing sea and he can’t focus enough to care if it’s morphine or hallucinogens, and either way the world is swimming and he is finally, mercifully out.

Time passes in swaths of blackness and brief flashes of light. Sometimes he wakes to find them changing the dressing of his wounds and bites back screams, sometimes they are shoveling food down his throat, sometimes they stand over him and mutter in words he almost understands. The only constants are his refrain of name, rank, and serial number, and Steve, always watching, always comforting. He doesn’t understand why Steve isn’t bound up, unless Bucky is the leverage they’re using to contain him. The thought makes him sick and he’s grateful for the darkness, though he realizes the more time he spends there, the more of a burden he becomes.

One day, when he is healing and his waking moments aren’t a ceaseless agony, two words cut him out of the blackness. Two words in a familiar voice. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky opens his eyes and for once does not find Steve, but rather Arnim Zola.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky’s heart stops when he sees Zola, and although it must start again, because he’s still breathing, still perceiving, he never feels it pick back up. Not while Zola is droning on about something he can’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears, over his hyperventilation and intermittent gasps of name, rank, and serial number—he catches the words “whole” and “improved” and nothing else—not after Zola has left, and not when Steve kneels beside him, trying to comfort him. How long can a man live with no heartbeat? Maybe he’s dead already, and this is hell. Does he deserve hell?

HYDRA waits until he’s healed enough that the shock of the experiments won’t kill him before they begin, and then there’s no question as to whether this is hell. His only question is what he’s done to earn it.

They don’t give him the time to think of an answer.

The morphine is switched out for something else, something that makes the sky black no matter the hour, makes him shake and see figures at the corners of his vision that are always gone by the time he whips his head to get a better look. The world rushes and drops and tilts like the Cyclone at Coney Island, and whatever they shoot in his veins is spinning his head as well, mixing memories like spun sugar, and was it the Cyclone that made Steve puke when they rode it, or were they on the Thunderbolt? Hadn’t Bucky been the one who got sick? He’s sick now, sick all the time, even though there’s nothing to _be_ sick, because they aren’t feeding him, so he’s left gagging on stomach acid and air.

He isn’t allowed to sleep. The only precious seconds of reprieve come when he blacks out, and then they turn hoses of freezing water on him to shock him back to consciousness. Each time he wakes, cold and drowning, he tries raising both hands to shield himself. Every time he forgets, and seeing the bandaged stump where the left arm should be leaves a new hole in the space where there was once a heart.

This time, there is a new dimension to the torture, a change to the rules that throws him even further off kilter. The last time Zola had him, all they cared about was the drugs. Blood pressure, pupil dilation, whether or not he tried to tear his skin off or went into seizures. Sometimes he’d be jerked back to a state of semi-lucidity, asked how he felt, but his answers were like a garnish, that sprig of parsley on a plate no one bothered to eat. Superfluous.

Now they want him to perform like a trained monkey. The questions and orders—always in Russian, never English, and while he understands some Russian the haze of whatever he’s dosed with isn’t helping with translation—are constant, nonsensical. What’s your name? Do you know where you are? Take this knife and hit the target. Stand up. Sit down. Jump. What are you? Load this weapon. There are guards lingering, slightly more substantial than the blackness at the edges of his eyes, whenever they make requests with the guns or blades. The orders come so fast and so frequent Bucky begins to feel like a dog, and like a dog they try and bribe him with treats. Food—oranges among them, where the hell did they get something as beautiful and fresh as oranges out here?—a warm bed, an end to the torment. He will only give the answer “James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241,” and when their patience reaches an end they begin the beatings.

They leave him on the floor, blood meandering down the grout lines in the tile as he lies, unable to sit up, and Steve speaks.

“They won’t break you, Bucky. You’re stronger than they are.”

 _I don’t feel stronger,_ Bucky almost says, but HYDRA’s ears must be pressed against every wall. It never stops Steve talking, though, but they won’t hurt Steve for it. They don’t touch him. Why would they need to, when Bucky’s broken body is such a perfect knife to Captain America’s heart?

Time passes and he finds himself speaking as he hauls his battered body up to slump against the wall, surveillance be damned. “Steve? You remember my mom?”

“Of course.”

“You remember her face?” Bucky asks, deliberately casual, and he can tell from the way Steve’s brows knit together that his poker face has failed.

“Yeah, I do. Why?”

He shrugs, wincing. “’Cause I can’t.” Then he’s sniffling, crying, and Steve is across the room faster than should be possible, kneeling beside him. “I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not,” Steve insists. One hand Bucky can’t feel is cradling his jaw while the other wipes at his tears. “Buck, you’re _not._ It’s their drugs. We can reverse it, once we get out of here everything’ll be—”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s—being here. Again. It’s like I never even got out the first time. Like you never came and saved me, and really, isn’t that what makes more sense? That they dosed me with some drug and I had this beautiful dream and now it’s over, and not that my scrawny friend from Brooklyn who was too puny to enlist became this…this god? What’s more likely, you saved me and we became war heroes, or I never left and it’s just some fairy tale?” He takes a shuddering breath, voice cracking. “Steve, please tell me you’re real, I can’t _take_ it, I can’t—”

“I’m real, Bucky.” Steve leans in, presses their foreheads together, unblinking, and it almost makes up for the way Bucky can’t feel a thing. 

“I’m real, and I’m not gonna leave you.”

“Get me outta here,” he mumbles, and the pain that had been muted from the drug begins to throb anew. They vary when they inject him with the doses, sometimes one right after the first fades, and sometimes hours later. Testing, he imagines, the withdrawal or his mental state upon regaining sobriety.

“I’m trying,” Steve tells him, but then Steve is gone, and it’s just Bucky, Bucky and the pain and the sudden, silent sobbing as he works out what’s real and what isn’t and it hits him—and hits him again and again and again—that Steve belongs on that second list. _No. No. Oh God, please no._

The only thing that keeps him from collapsing wide-eyed and catatonic and never rising again is the grim determination that he has to _remember_ this, even after they drug him again, has to find a way to teach himself that Steve isn’t _real_ , he can’t talk to Steve or he risks giving HYDRA what they need and God only knows what he’s already told them. He’ll etch the warning into his own skin if he has to, but then the guards are back, holding him down as they come at him with another injection, and even through his thrashing they manage to place it, and the world is thrown back into confusion as they drag him down the hall.

They are about to strap him to a chair when Zola asks if he’s ever heard of electroshock therapy.

After that, Bucky won’t be still, won’t be held. He runs on panic, adrenaline, and a rush of anger and heartache he can no longer remember the source of, and they can’t contain him to get the straps into place, can’t get a sedative into his veins with all the struggling. He doesn’t know where this burst of energy comes from, but he isn’t going to question it, isn’t going to do anything but fight his way free, kill them all, get the hell out—

Zola motions someone to come forward and Bucky freezes, too tense to be forced into the chair, as Steve looks down at him.

“Bucky,” he says, and there’s something needling in the back of Bucky’s mind, a question of why hadn’t he seen Steve while he was thrashing around, wasn’t there another doctor in the room a second ago, isn’t he supposed to remember something about Steve, but Steve is here and Steve is going to save him and that’s all that matters. “Bucky, you have to calm down. They’re trying to help you.”

He can feel his heart in his chest again, feel it grow heavy and sink. 

“But—”

“Trust me, Bucky,” Steve pleads. “You have to trust me. Let them help you.”

His eyes are wet again as he lies back, hyperventilating. Every fiber of his being screams at him to break free and run, but Steve said he would be all right and Steve wouldn’t lie to him, and where is Steve, he can’t see Steve anymore, Steve’s stepped back into the shadows and now all he can make out in the dark, faintly, is the missing doctor, the blond one, and Bucky’s eyes widen as he moves to struggle, but then there’s something shoved into his mouth, electricity in his head and fireworks in his vision and everything is pain and darkness.

When he awakes, covered in cold sweat and still slumped back in the chair, someone asks him how he is feeling.

He opens his mouth to give the name, rank, and serial number, as always. His heart begins to pound when he realizes he can’t give his name. It’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I have no idea how brainwashing works, and am just making it up as I go. Hopefully, it's not terribly, gallingly inaccurate.


	4. Chapter 4

“Jah—” is the closest to a name he can manage, a single, faltered syllable that he has to force out through a throat stripped raw. Why is it so hard to speak? Has he been screaming? What have they done to make him scream? What is this chair and why can’t he remember how he got into it? “Jah—Jah…Jah—”

Lights shine in his face, stinging, blinding, and what little of a coherent thread of thought he’s managed to spin unravels, skittering to the corners of his mind, unable to be gathered again. Someone is brushing hair from his eyes, asking what’s wrong, asking his name.

The voice is laughing, he thinks, and he struggles but his body is heavy and numb and his head and throat feel scraped and raw and his attempts to free himself are weak as…weak as…whatever comparison his mind wants to make is gone and he’s left reaching into another dark void, without even the flicker of light that appears when he searches for a name.

The voices continue, and the longer he goes without speaking—there are words in his head, both English and Russian and maybe other languages he’s forgotten the names of, all jumbled together now, shaken up like a…cocktail? What is a cocktail?—the louder and more angry they become, but he doesn’t care.

“Jah,” he repeats and each time he says it the grinding pain in his throat is almost forgotten in the rush of desperate focus that accompanies the word. “Jah…Jah…” It must be hidden somewhere in him, it _has_ to be, how can he lose his own name? No, these people, he can’t remember what it is they _want_ , but they’re bad. He’s locked the name away to protect it, all he has to do is dig deep enough and he can find it again.

All he has to do is _focus_.

There are rough hands on him, shaking, hitting, blasts of icy water, and he can’t focus, but he can’t acknowledge them either. Can’t let himself be distracted. If he’s still and quiet enough, if he withholds whatever it is they _want_ , they’ll stop. They have to. He must remember who he is, because if he can’t, then what _is_ he? Not a person. A person has an identity.

If he isn’t a person, how can he fight back?

They drag him to a cell and the blood on the floor suggests he’s been there before, but he can’t remember. He stares at the blood, “jah jah jah jah” a constant refrain under his breath. Is it his blood? It doesn’t seem to hold any answers. 

He stands, staring down at the stains, until his legs give way beneath him and he finds himself on his knees. A pair of boots, scuffed, step into his vision, standing on his blood.

He raises his head and gives a small, shaky smile. “Steve.”

Long after he forgets his own name, he remembers “Steve.”

Steve’s hands are worrying at the aches and cuts he can feel in his own skin, and while he can’t feel Steve’s hands, he doesn’t care, relief washing over him. Steve. Steve is a name. He knows the name. He knows the man. And he doesn’t feel fear upon seeing him, he can _remember_ him, and that means that Steve knows him too, knows his name.

He waits to hear it, eyes tearing up with hope rather than pain, and the tears spill out when his name isn’t spoken. Instead Steve taps a finger against his cracked, bloody lips, kneels down beside him, takes his hand. “C’mon, you can do this,” Steve urges, and he wants to shout that he _can’t_.

He _can’t_ remember, not through the haze of fatigue and confusion, he _can’t_ keep speaking or he’ll lose his voice, he _can’t_ go on through the pain and the fear and the overwhelming need for sleep that he knows, without knowing how he knows, will be forcibly interrupted if he does manage to doze off.

But he can’t say any of that, because he knows _Steve_ , and he knows from the look on Steve’s face that no excuse will matter. Steve is saying he believes in him, and when Steve believes, there is no room for debate.

“Jah,” he mumbles, searching his mind, flexing and reaching for a name through the ache and the smog. “Jah…Jah…”

When he closes his eyes, colors swirl and pulse in his vision. The world with his eyes open is not much better. He remembers injections, and he can’t tell if the colors and shadows and shaking walls are a poison sliding through his veins or sickness borne of exhaustion. Maybe both. He thinks of asking Steve, but Steve wants him to remember and so he forces himself to focus.

When his mind wanders, he bites at his lips, slaps at his own face. Steve’s hand reaches up to stop him each time, but it never prevents him. “Jah…Jah…Jah…”

His voice is all but gone, a faint whisper, by the time something slides into place. “Jah…Jay…James. _James_.”

The tears are back. Not that the tears ever stopped, but now they are not motivated by frustration or exhaustion. _James_. A name. He has a name. They couldn’t take that from him, and so they can’t break him. He isn’t theirs. He’s _James_. He can survive.

James raises his head, meets Steve’s eyes. Steve is smiling back, and Steve’s smile makes James feel as if he can fight lions. He doesn’t know what lions are, not anymore, but he can fight them anyway.

When the men come back into the room, James meets their eyes. It takes a few tries for words to come out but after the initial, creaking rasp, he manages. “James.” A last name, a rank, a serial number, all of that is still missing, but he has a name, and while he has that, he has autonomy. That’s all that matters. “James. James.”

They sedate James, drag him back to the chair. James can’t scream or struggle, only watch, cry, beg incoherently through the bit in his mouth, as they shock him back into darkness.

When he awakens, his name is gone again. He tries to struggle and is told to be still, told the procedure has already begun, and watches, helpless, as a saw is taken to what remains of his left arm.


	5. Chapter 5

The new arm is metal, shining, and the metal catches the light and sparkles in his exhausted eyes like a kaleidoscope, making it impossible to focus on anyone’s words even with the way they’re slapping at him. When the slapping fails, they zap at him with electrical prods and the metal arm seizes, the pain where it fuses on growing from a dull burn to a conflagration.

They want him to use the arm, pick things up, and his first attempt breaks the table in half. He tenses, prepared for the shocks again, but instead they open up the arm and tinker around with the wiring and gears inside. He thinks of the broken table, thinks of fighting them off, but his arm is numb now and the sight of the machinery within freezes him. This is a part of him now, as attached to his body as the opposite limb made of flesh and blood.

They want to make him a machine and they’re succeeding.

The objects they set before him range from as fragile and delicate as an egg—he must crush a dozen of those before the fingers can grasp it without smashing—to a metal beam and when he lifts that one-handed, the arm can support it but the ribs on that side snap from the strain. The doctors note it, confer in Russian and decide to replace those ribs as well. Each motion is accompanied by a whirring, a perpetual reminder of the way they’ve marked him, transformed him.

The limb’s ability to feel texture is the next thing they test, then temperature. Icy water doesn’t register, but liquid nitrogen does. He doesn’t feel the cold as much as he has a sudden, overwhelming thought of _danger_ , and he jerks away, pain radiating through the broken ribs. Extreme heat feels the exact same as the cold, and the doctors seem satisfied. They stroke his hair, muttering praises, hook the real arm, his arm, to an IV and allow him to lie down and sleep.

When he awakens, his stomach is no longer aching and doubling him over. Steve sits at the foot of the bed, staring at the IV. “That’s how they’re giving you nutrients,” Steve explains. “They don’t want you to eat. If you can feed yourself, you’re not completely dependent on them.”

He nods. He would speak, but his voice has been lost since he woke up in the chair. Was that their design as well?

Steve touches the new arm and it doesn’t register the sensation. “They want to make you into a weapon. _Their_ weapon. That’s why you’ve been drugged and starved. It’s why they’re taking away your memories. They want to make you subservient to them by taking everything else.”

Another nod. He knows this is a type of conditioning, though he doesn’t know where he learned about it. Or who taught him what conditioning is.

“It won’t work,” Steve tells him. “I know it won’t, because I know you, and you’re stronger than them.”

He doesn’t feel stronger now, having rested and “eaten.” He can’t imagine feeling stronger while starved and exhausted.

But Steve is insistent. “You’re a good man. It doesn’t matter what they take from you. They can steal your name, they can tear every memory out of your head and I know that won’t change your heart. All they’re doing now is giving you the means to overpower them. And you will, and once you get out of here we can find a way to repair all that they’ve done.”

He smiles, not because he believes in his ability to do any of those things, but because Steve does. And since Steve does, he will have to do them. To disappoint Steve isn’t an option. He can’t say why he knows this, but he does.

They replace his ribs next. It was a delicate operation that involved grafting metal into bone, they say—he wonders if a metal spine is beyond their abilities—and they refuse to let him move after. They speak to him in Russian only and let him watch cartoons while he is healing. If he strains he can recall sitting in a theater, laughing with Steve while news reels and cartoons and movies play, but the drugs keep pulling those thoughts out of reach, like a tide.

Their cartoons are all about the West, about ugly American soldiers raping women, killing innocents, and eating babies. Sometimes the stories are set in the USA, and the whole country is full of slave drivers, putting starving masses through hard labor and then taking any profit for themselves. “The Americans abandoned you,” they tell him. “They exploited you and left you to die, and we saved you.”

They order him to repeat it. When he refuses, they take to beating and whipping at the soles of his feet, far from the recovering surgical sites and painful enough to get his newly regained voice shrieking.

The words come spilling out to make the blows stop. He repeats it once, twice, and by the fifth time they are praising him, allowing him the IV. He continues to chant the phrase once the doctors have left the room for fear of their return. The beatings may continue if they doubt his sincerity. He repeats it to save himself.

Then he repeats it because they saved his broken body, they gave him a new arm and shelter, and they keep him from starving. It begins to sound true, so he says it again, reaffirming.

Steve is with him again and he falters, guilty, but Steve is just one American. Is Steve American? Steve’s begun speaking Russian like everyone else. He can’t even listen to English without recoiling—each time he tries to speak it, the electrical prods come back—and so Steve has stopped using it. Even if Steve is American, he’s different. It’s possible that Steve is the only decent American. Likely, because Steve is the only one staying with him.

His body heals and they want him to use weapons again, follow their orders. He does without hesitation, and when he can feel Steve’s eyes on him, sad, he tells himself it’s the drugs that make him obey. He tells himself he isn’t grateful for what they’ve done, and he doesn’t _want_ to follow commands, doesn’t want the distraction from the emptiness in his mind that comes with an objective, doesn’t want to be praised for leaping to fulfill an order.

Time passes. His body heals, and if not for the whir of the new arm, the way it is always cold to the touch, or the vast expanse of darkness in his mind where there was once a person, he might feel whole again. He thinks maybe being their weapon would not be so bad, maybe Steve will not hold it against him, until the day they take him out and order him to kill.

_I am not this person_ , he thinks, he _knows_ , even before he senses Steve’s presence beside him and hears the man say the same.

The refusal earns the beatings and the starvation again. The target is brought to the facility with them so they can give the order once more while he is being punished. Each time, he refuses.

They strap him into the chair, shock him, drug him. He barely remembers he is alive upon waking and he fires without hesitation, only noticing the blood sprayed onto the wall to ensure the success of the mission.

A week goes by, and they order him to kill again.

The longer he spends out of the chair, the easier it becomes to remember fragments of the person who was in this body, the easier it is to hear Steve. He refuses.

The beatings continue. He hears them speak about shocking him again, hears them worry that they will do irreparable damage if they have to shock him every time, hears that it isn’t feasible.

Someone sits down beside him, asks softly why he won’t do as they ask after all they’ve done for him.

“He says not to,” he responds in Russian. Always in Russian.

Who says not to?

He points to the American, always watching, always smiling at the man even when the smile is sad. “Steve.”


	6. Chapter 6

CAPTAIN AMERICA DEAD, the headline says.

Really, it says “Captain America Believed Dead” but someone has taken ink and slashed through “Believed,” pressing hard enough to leave a dent in the newspaper. He reads the article slowly—speaking Russian has become easier, but this is the first they’ve wanted him to read it—once aloud, then a second time silently. The details are sparse but they say there was a plane crash, and neither a plane nor a body was recovered.

The doctor watches him struggle through the text. “Well?”

He shakes his head. “It’s wrong.”

It took seeing the photograph in the paper for his mind to connect Steve to this Captain America, so before he’d simply sat, confused, as they insisted that Captain America is dead, that the Captain had thrown him from the train to save himself, and it is the Captain’s fault his arm was lost and the Captain’s fault he sustained the head injury that’s stealing his memories and making him believe the Captain is alive and an ally.

“Captain America is dead and an enemy.” They made him repeat it perhaps a thousand times and asked if he understood. When he nodded, they pressed the rifle back into his hands and ordered him to fire, taking the weapon and slamming the butt of it into his face when he refused, demanding to know why not.

He nodded to Steve again, ignoring the blood dripping from his nose and over his lips. “He says not to.”

The beatings started after that. Now he is here, the newspaper tossed at him as they discuss options. Scan his brain and see what lights up when he thinks of the Captain, then shock that area, is one proposed theory. Another argues that he has to want to lose the memory or it’ll keep sliding back in. Someone points out that they can’t do another round of electroshock until after the cryo test, or he won’t have the stamina to survive the freeze.

A very quiet part of him that only speaks up to refuse shooting someone thinks he shouldn’t let them touch him; he should break free and run. He ignores it. He has nowhere to go. Besides, the doctors saved his life. He may not kill for them, but he owes them something.

Instead of running, he turns his attention back to the paper and he shakes his head at the title. Captain America? Is Steve a captain? He supposes that would explain why he can’t say no to Steve, but Steve’s always been more of a friend than a commanding officer. And Steve’s alive.

“It’s not wrong,” the doctor insists. “He’s dead. Failed.”

If he could remember how to laugh, he might do it now. “It’s stupid,” he says, because Steve is right there, and the first kick the doctor aims at his stomach connects with the metal ribs and he hardly feels it, apologizing as the doctor doubles over in pain from the impact. The second kick winds him, and he is still struggling to regain his breath when they circle around him, injecting chemicals into his body and dragging him toward some sort of metal tank. 

No explanation is given, just an order—“Don’t struggle”—as the tank closes around him. Through the small window he can see Steve standing, watching, at the back of the room, and he reaches a hand toward him, just managing to tap the glass as he feels the sudden cold— _danger_ , the metal limb sends to his brain, _danger_ —and then the walls are frosting over and he is no longer awake.

When he comes to he is being dragged, body shivering and dripping with slush, and there is a crowd around him again, monitoring vitals and injecting more syringes. A light is shined in his eyes and once it’s gone, the rifle is back into his hands and the target is back in front of him, and though he’s half-blinded from the afterglow he knows the shot he makes is perfect. He knows this without pride or bravado; they have trained him to be their perfect soldier, and so he takes perfect shots.

They let him clean his body off with hot water, brush his hair and tell him how well he’s done for them, what good he’s doing for humanity. They hook him to the IV and though they won’t let him sleep—too soon after cryo could have adverse effects, they say, as if he knows what cryo is—they do let him lie down.

The next day, they want to talk about Steve. 

Do you remember what we told you about Captain America? they ask.

“Captain America is dead and an enemy.”

Do you understand that Steve Rogers is Captain America?

He bites his lip, shakes his head. He understands, but—“Steve is alive.”

He’s not alive.

“But he is.”

They don’t worry about snapping bones when they beat him, aren’t concerned with the long term effects of starving his body. They say he will heal rapidly; they will let him heal once they’ve cast this delusion from his mind. They hit and break and burn and slash, but Steve is there and he can’t deny that.

Why does Captain Rogers tell you not to follow our orders? they ask.

“Because you’re not a weapon or a murderer. You’re a good man,” Steve says, and he repeats it.

You’ve already killed for us.

He doesn’t have an answer for that, so he stays silent.

We’re saving the world, they say. Humanity is driving itself toward chaos and extinction. We are saving the world and we need you to do your part. You owe us for what we’ve given you.

He doesn’t speak, frozen like a dog called by two masters. He hadn’t realized he remembers dogs until just now.

Why do you listen to Captain Rogers?

The answer to that, he can provide and does so immediately, smiling with relief. “Because he’s my friend.”

Does he know your name?

The smile is gone. “I—”

Did he set your injuries? Replace the arm he made you lose? Give you food? Shelter? Keep you from harm while you’ve been here?

“I—he—no?”

Then what sort of friend is he?

“He’s my friend,” he repeats.

He tells you to resist us when he knows it will only cause you pain. He holds you back from helping humanity and he doesn’t protect you from the punishments we must inflict when you disobey.

“He’s my friend.”

If he’s your friend, they say, he can save you from this. Then they beat and cut at him until he can see bone.

After, when he is lying on the floor, eyes swollen half-shut, each breath a stab to the sternum, he can sense Steve over him. His smile is hesitant, shaking with every ounce of hope left in his body. There isn’t much hope left, but Steve won’t let him down. He can’t.

“They can’t break you,” Steve tells him. “I knew they couldn’t. You’re—”

“What’s my name?” he asks, words almost too soft for himself to pick up, but he knows Steve will hear him. He always does. He knows that his name has been taken from him, though he can’t remember how, but he also knows they haven’t touched Steve. He must still have the name.

Steve’s smile falters, and when it resumes, it’s sad. “I don’t know.”

He can feel the hope fading, and the dimmer it becomes, the deeper it slices. “Get me out of here,” he pleads, voice ragged. His breathing quickens and that makes the stinging worse.

“I can’t.”

The sad smile is still there, and he hadn’t known it was possible to look at Steve’s smile and feel so empty. There is no rush of anger or betrayal, no heartbreak. He’s too emptied for anything but a sigh of resignation. “You should leave.”

“Wait,” Steve pleads. “We’ll find a way out together, we’ll remember _together_ , you’re my best friend and I’m not—”

He rolls so that his back is to Steve, and even though the effort makes him scream out, he hardly feels it. “You’re not my friend.”

Steve is silent after that, and when he regains the strength to look around, Steve is gone.

They let his body heal fully before they strap him to the chair and shock him multiple times, one right after another. Immediately after they drag him to the cryo-tank—he is barely conscious or lucid, but he hears them say it must be now, or his mind will be able to overcome the latest damage—and this time when he stares at the window, he doesn’t see Steve, doesn’t remember to look for him. There is someone new there, someone he’s never seen before and when he reaches out, his hand clinks against the glass and he realizes it’s a reflection. He cannot recall ever seeing himself before and he stares curiously until the rush of cold puts him to sleep.

When he awakens, he stands on shaking feet, cold fluid running off him like afterbirth. He does not look around for anyone. He is a soldier, a weapon, and he has no need for comfort.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter deals with sexual harassment and dehumanization.
> 
> Translations for the Russian should appear if you hover over the Russian text. I used Google Translate for the Russian, so I'm not sure if it's accurate.

When they speak of him, he occasionally hears the title Winter Soldier. When they address him, he is their asset. He used to wonder which of them his name was, or if they both were, before they taught him that weapons don’t have names and don’t care how they’re addressed. Weapons don’t care about anything but striking their target. Doing as their handlers command. Helping HYDRA save the world.

Sometimes he forgets he is a weapon and does things weapons aren’t meant to do, voicing opinions and making decisions on his own. HYDRA is there to guide him back on target each time this happens and every lesson hurts, but not as much as the knowledge of disappointing them. They teach him what it means to be theirs. It means doing as ordered without question, whether the order is to walk barefoot on broken glass or to pick up a pencil. It means never being hungry, thirsty, or tired, never letting pain get in the way of a mission. Most of all it means not letting thoughts distract him, not thinking at all. Weapons don’t need to think of anything beyond the most efficient way to fulfill their intended function.

Not thinking is the most difficult.

Whenever he aims a weapon there is a voice that comes from somewhere within him, sometimes whispering and sometimes shouting. _Don’t,_ the voice pleads. _Don’t be their killer. You’re better than this._ It makes his head ache and disturbs his focus and when he reports it, they assure him they can fix him and then lead him back to the chair. His body tenses every time he sees it, chest constricting and breath quickening as he sits down, though he can never remember why he reacts this way. He doesn’t fight. He is broken and they are repairing him, and he is grateful that they bother to do that instead of casting him aside as a malfunctioning weapon deserves.

The voice is quieter after that. It stops interfering, so he stops reporting it.

But the first time they send him on a mission on his own—maybe the first, his memory doesn’t reach back far and that doesn’t trouble him because a weapon needs no memory—he strikes the target and there is a new voice as he watches the body crumple to the pavement. This one comes from outside him rather than within, though when he looks around, he sees no one there. The voice is familiar in a way he doesn’t have the words to describe.

_Nice shot._

The asset raises his own fist to his face, blackening an eye and putting a hairline fracture in his cheekbone. The voice is gone when he lowers his hand. Weapons do not admire their accuracy. Weapons do not have pride. Nor do they listen to imaginary voices

[ _ghosts **friends**_ ]

that serve as distractions.

When he returns, they question the damage. The asset explains that his arm malfunctioned because a damaged arm is easier to repair than a damaged mind and he has already silenced the problem, so it would be irresponsible to worry them unnecessarily. They spend an hour recalibrating his arm before sending him back to the chair and the tank.

*

He does what they require and they praise him, brush the long, dark hair from his eyes, tell him how invaluable his work is to humanity, give him new weapons and say he’s earned them.

If he disappoints him, they stomp at his bones.

He tries never to disappoint them. The asset is almost perfect, save for the periods of disorientation just after waking. Then he is worthless, weak, eyes dripping and mind full of half-remembered distractions

[ _there was a person I was a person I fell everything hurts_ ]

but they are always there to guide him, sometimes kicking and shouting until he is as he should be, sometimes quiet and soothing until he comes around. He’s grateful for either method, for whatever they’re willing to give him. He hopes, each time he goes into the tank, that this time he will be better and not a disappointment when he wakes.

*

It is 1994 and the asset is in Los Angeles.

He is shaking.

The target, an American politician, is dead, eliminated before their team could even reach the location. Heart attack, called at 6:17 AM according to their intel. At 4:31 AM, an earthquake triggered the attack, much as it triggered the collapse of the bridge their convoy was traveling on. There are no fatalities among them, no life-threatening injuries. But there is no longer a mission and they cannot reach the rendezvous point. They have been told to lie low until a transport can reach them.

There is no mission and the asset is shaking.

He bites his lips behind the 

[ _muzzle_ ]

mask, as the others keep their distance as though he will strike them. Perhaps he will. He has no guidance, and without the guidance, his mind is left to drift places it shouldn’t. He has felt sick since the ground gave way beneath them and the feeling will not fade.

“Вот, держи.” One of them steps slowly forward, arm splinted, a canteen in his good hand. “Пей.”

“Мне не нужно.”

The hand touches skin above the mask, then catches the rim just below his eyes and gently pulls it away. “Ты горишь, дорогой,” the man says. “Нельзя допустить обезвоживания. Пей.”

He takes it as an order, lets the water slide down a throat unaccustomed to feeling it, and manages not to choke. The asset waits, lets the man stroke his hair and listens to him speak to the others about his children, occasionally muttering “дорогой.” The asset does not know what дорогой means.

*

“You’re beautiful.”

The asset is pressed against a wall. His mask is tugged away and there is a hand at his lips and dark, glittering eyes staring into his own. His handler is gone from the room. The mission is an Iranian nuclear physicist, and they are to be leaving soon.

And a member of the strike team has pushed him up against the wall.

Someone else laughs. “It can’t understand you. Look how blank its eyes are.”

“He understands fine,” the man says, tries to slide his fingers into a mouth the asset keeps shut. He grins at the resistance, his other hand winding in the asset’s hair. “They don’t freeze you right after the mission, right? I can think of a way to pass the time…”

“You’re fucked in the head,” another says.

“You’re just jealous I won’t share.”

They laugh. The door is opening and the man is off him as the asset’s handler returns. When they find the target the Soldier sends his car over a cliff, and when the physicist’s protection shields his body with her own, the asset fires through her.

His heartbeat increases and his breathing grows labored as he sees the chair, like always, but this time he is also grateful for it.

*

“This is a different kind of mission,” they tell him once he has pulled himself back together after waking. “It will be simple for you. We only need you to act if the others fail.”

They leave him to memorize the information of the new mission: Fury, Nicholas J.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the Winter Soldier acts like a confused child when he's not on a mission in the film, and Pierce kind of speaks to him as if he is one, I figured other members of HYDRA were likely to notice that as well and then either act sheltering or take advantage of it as a result.
> 
> The earthquake in the chapter is the 1994 Northridge earthquake, which resulted in 57 deaths and nearly 9000 injuries.
> 
> For anyone who's reading this on a mobile or otherwise unable to access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Вот, держи = here  
> Пей = drink  
> Мне не нужно. = I do not need to  
> Ты горишь, дорогой = You're burning up, dear  
> Нельзя допустить обезвоживания. Пей = Do not allow yourself to become dehydrated. Drink  
> дорогой = dear


	8. Chapter 8

Nicholas J. Fury’s car is hurtling through the air.

A wave of heat and debris from the explosive disc the asset launched at the vehicle passes over him, fluttering through his hair. The mask and goggles shield him from any damage, and he does not bother to step aside until he must either move or be crushed. To react otherwise would be an unnecessary waste of energy.

HYDRA was right when they said this mission would be simple. HYDRA is always right.

It was less simple for the assailants pursuing Nicholas J. Fury before the asset acted. He watched the mess they made of things before it was clear he would have to step in. Even with their disguises, they have created more of a scene than even the Soldier’s actions can manage.

It doesn’t matter. The mission will succeed and HYDRA will be able to cover the damage as they always do. The asset does not believe he has ever been asked to operate so publically, but it doesn’t concern him because HYDRA knows what they’re doing and because weapons do not feel concern.

The vehicle skids a stop and the Soldier approaches it, braced for any attack on the part of Nicholas J. Fury, although at this point it’s unlikely the target is capable of retaliation. The smoke fogs his goggles, but not badly enough to prevent him from seeing, nor enough for him to expend the effort to wipe them. The stronger arm clamps onto the door and a tug sends it flying from its hinges.

The mission is not inside. In his place is a hole carved through the asphalt of the street, still burning hot at the edges. The asset stares.

[ _искусный_ ]

He drops down the hole, weapon ready, landing in a defensive stance as he surveys his surroundings. This is a sewer. His mission is in the sewer and the Soldier will have no trouble tracking him.

But his handlers will not want him to disappear with no warning, even to complete a mission. They will have to come looking for him in the tunnels and it will inconvenience them and earn him punishment. And he can track a target after the fact as easily as he can track one while it flees.

Nicholas J. Fury will be eliminated quickly enough. The asset never fails.

*

It is night.

He has traded out the goggles for eye paint to prevent any glare as the sun sets without compromising the quality of vision in dimmer conditions. The jacket which concealed the stronger arm has also been replaced with a tactical vest, allowing a wider range of motion.

His mission is not so _искусный_ after all. He avoids the window, but he does not direct another man who is not the mission away from it, and the Soldier uses that man's eye line to gauge Nicholas J. Fury's location.

The Soldier aims. He has learned not to hear the voice whispering “stop” over the years. He takes the shots, _один, два, три._ Inside, Nicholas J. Fury must crumple. The asset watches until the man who is not the mission is staring up at him through the window, then turns to leave.

Glass shatters in the distance as he runs, and behind the Soldier’s mask, his mouth twitches

[ _улыбается_ ]

as he realizes the man who is not his mission means to pursue him, running through the building below. He will never catch the asset. He would be too slow even without doors, walls, and glass as obstacles.

But he is keeping pace, and as the Soldier jumps from one roof to the next, rolling to lessen the impact of the landing, he hears another window shatter. He is running again and there is impact behind him, a soft zing in the air, and he turns, metal arm catching a metal shield.

There is no expected vibration through the shield when the asset grabs it. Is he simply not perceiving it? Is his arm malfunctioning? He thinks the shield will not vibrate no matter what, but he does not know why he thinks this or why he is thinking at all.

His eyes land on the man-not-the-mission before he can devote much more attention to the shield.

The Soldier has been trained not to respond to temperatures, but the world is suddenly cold, cold as the cryo-tank.

There is a rush of

[ _чувство, **знакомство**_ ]

sensation that the asset cannot name. His body is suddenly heavy, eyes faintly stinging as if the paint has run into them, but there is no perspiration on his face to cause it to run. The whispers in his mind are louder, buzzing with words he doesn’t know, a language he does not _think_ in, there is a second voice he cannot recall, and the cadence of the words makes him dizzy, gives him

[ _страстное желание_ ]

a wave of vertigo and even though the Soldier is not close enough to the roof’s edge to fall, the threat of doing so seems imminent.

The encounter lasts a few seconds, but the few seconds are an eternity. The asset throws the shield at the man-not-the-mission, turns to run without looking back. The shield will either knock the man-not-the-mission down or shove him back if he catches it—he thinks the man will catch it and why is he still thinking?—and either way the Soldier will have time to lose his pursuit.

He heads toward the bank vault serving as his rendezvous point. His mind drifts to the man-not-the-mission another time, but the asset stops that by slamming himself about the head. The mission is over. The man is not his mission. All of these things will be wiped away and the Soldier will not dwell on it until that occurs.

They are happy when he returns with a mission report of success. He has been very good, they say. They do not put him to sleep yet because HYDRA’s newest mission is very important, the most important they have ever had, and they need to be ready if they need his help again. The one named Rumlow smirks and strokes his hair, and the Soldier does not move, does not shy away from any touch that comes from HYDRA, hard or soft. The handler—commander, master—named Pierce tells him his contributions have been invaluable.

The asset knows that weapons are not meant to feel, but he feels content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if the film is trying to imply that Winter's recognizing Steve during the rooftop scene, but his eyes are so sad in that moment that I think he must. Either that, or he simply walks around with heartbroken eyes all the time anyway, and that's just too sad to contemplate.
> 
> I write Winter as sort of an imprinted duckling on account of the "your work has shaped the century" speech. Pierce seems eager to assure him that he's doing good, which makes me think he's very eager to do what he's been taught to perceive as good, and to make his handlers happy while doing so.
> 
> For anyone reading this on a mobile, or anyone who can't otherwise access the hover text, the translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> искусный = clever  
> один, два, три = one, two, three  
> улыбается = smiles  
> чувство, знакомство = feeling, knowing  
> страстное желание = longing


	9. Chapter 9

Instead of briefing him at the base of operations, this time he is sent to Pierce’s home to receive his orders. He can’t recall if he has ever received a mission this way, but he can’t recall the method in which he received any mission save for Nicholas J. Fury’s. Everything before was unnecessary, so HYDRA has wiped it away. And the mission will be fulfilled regardless of how the orders arrive. A weapon does not question the manner in which it is aimed.

Pierce’s home is large. It has many windows, tall and wide, so that the exterior walls might as well be made of glass. The asset thinks this is a vulnerable location, open to numerous methods of attack, but it is Pierce’s and he has survived here and weapons do not question things. And while the Soldier is here, there is no threat of attack from anything. He will not allow harm to come to his handler under any circumstance.

There is a woman there when he slips inside, moving down a hallway and dusting the framed pictures that hang along the walls. He could shoot her—there is a gun waiting in his hand should the need arise to use it—snap her neck, break her skull, strangle her. There is no shortage of methods he can utilize to end her life. But he has not received an order to eliminate her, so instead he slips into the shadows of a room as he waits for her to pass. He recalls once being called a _призрак,_ and he can be one when it is needed, silent, invisible, moving without a trace.

There are pictures on the walls of this room as well. In the hallway, they were paintings, but here they are photographs. The asset surveys them as he waits. Pierce is in many of them, alongside children or other adults, looking as he does now in some and younger in many others. Did the Soldier ever fulfill missions for Pierce when he was young? There was a sense of recognition when the asset awoke and Pierce was there to brief him, but that may be the recognition of a master, not that of a familiar face.

He hears the woman moving up the stairs and steps back into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen. Having noted the layout of the building before coming inside, he only looks around to ensure there are no threats to be dealt with and to prevent himself from walking by Pierce inadvertently. The Soldier was not told where within the building to go. The room he’d been standing in did not appear to see much use. But kitchens, aren’t those an area people frequent?

The asset stands at first, but that makes him too visible, expends unnecessary energy. He sits then, weapon on the table and arm beside it, body tensed, ready to take action the second the need should arise.

Pierce enters the room and the Soldier waits to be seen, to be given purpose.

Their eyes meet and then the woman is speaking, and she is downstairs again, near to the kitchen and the _призрак_ in the shadows. “I’m going to go, Mr. Pierce. You need anything before I leave?”

The Soldier’s gaze drifts toward the hallway where the woman stands just out of sight, then back to Pierce, awaiting his word.

“No. Uh, it’s fine, Renata, you can go home,” Pierce says, and while the Soldier realizes his gun will most likely not be needed, he remains tense to be prepared should the situation change.

“Okay, night-night,” the woman says, and there are footsteps beginning away from them as Pierce answers with “Good night.”

Pierce’s attention has returned to him as a door opens and closes in the distance. “Want some milk?”

He has been asked a question. Questions require answers, but the asset has no answer to give. Want? What is “want”? It’s not a word weapons use; it does not apply to them. He doesn’t know how to react, and finds he cannot react, only stare and wait for the punishment that will come from failing to answer.

But there is no punishment. Pierce simply retrieves a glass, pours a small amount. If it is given to the asset, he will drink. “The time-table has moved,” Pierce says. “Our window is limited.”

He drinks from the glass he has poured then, stepping around the countertop and moving toward the table where the Soldier is seated. “Two targets, level six. They already cost me Zola.”

Zola. Zola created him, saved his life. He doesn’t remember how his life was threatened, not anymore, but he knows that Zola saved it. There is a brief sensation he can’t name, what might be

[ _hatred_ ]

sadness if he felt things, but he does not. The impact is there and gone immediately, without reverberation.

“I want confirmed death in ten hours,” Pierce says, and as the asset is about to nod he looks past the man and realizes the woman has returned.

And realizes she has seen him.

“Sorry,” she stammers. “Mr. Pierce, I—I, uh, I forgot my phone.” She does not look at Pierce at first, eyes fixated on the Soldier. He stares back, awaiting a command.

Instead, Pierce sighs. “Oh, Renata.” He turns, lifts the gun from the table. The asset watches. “I wish you would’ve knocked.”

Pierce fires twice. The woman screams once. They watch as she stumbles backward, body jerking on the hardwood—Pierce sighs again, “I just had those polished”—until it stills, dead. With a third sigh, Pierce stands, setting the gun back onto the table as he does. “She made the best risotto,” he comments, walking out of the room, and the Soldier waits silently for his return.

Upon remerging, there is a file in Pierce’s hands: a dossier on the new targets. He drops it down beside the gun. Natalia Alianovna Romanov, aliases Natasha Romanoff, Natalie Rushman, and Black Widow. Steven Rogers, alias Captain America.

There are photographs of the targets. One of them he recognizes from

[ _снег_ ]

the rooftop. The man-not-the-mission has become a mission after all.

“Confirmed death in ten hours,” Pierce repeats, and the asset nods. He will not fail. He never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve begun displaying thoughts in brackets breaking up the text, Stephen King style, as that’s how I imagine any independent thoughts the Winter Soldier has would come through: short and disconnected from the rest of his observations. In regards to why some are in Russian and some in English, it has to do with “who” is having the thoughts. I don’t view the Winter Soldier as necessarily a separate personality, as that would imply there’s a personality there at all, so it’s almost more like Bucky Barnes is sleeping and the Winter Soldier is the actions he takes while sleepwalking. So the English text can be viewed as Bucky talking in his sleep, whereas the Russian is what little is left of a human inside the Winter Soldier speaking up. I call this voice “Winter.”
> 
> For anyone on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Призрак = ghost  
> Снег = the snow


	10. Chapter 10

The asset's arm goes through the window the instant his feet have landed on the roof of the car, and as he pulls the body he has clamped onto out of the vehicle, he realizes it is not that of either of his targets. So he discards it into the opposite traffic before shooting through the roof. Three shots, each aimed where their heads were last resting when the Soldier had a view inside. He prepares to fire again, but the car's tires are screeching against the pavement as the driver brakes hard, throwing the asset forward.

He rolls, hand scraping even louder against the cement as he digs his fingers into the road to halt his movement. He is up again as HYDRA's Jeep slams into the back of the missions' car, forcing them toward him. The asset jumps before the vehicle can strike him, flipping, hand clenching down just above the windshield. His body slams against the rooftop, boots breaking through the rear window, but the impact can be ignored.

The metal arm shatters the glass, rips the steering wheel from the interior. Either the male or female mission is firing shots from inside, and the Soldier leaps onto the hood of the Jeep, bracing his body against the windshield. The Jeep slams the car again, sends it flying. The missions are out of the vehicle, sliding down the road on the now detached passenger door. Their driver was with them, but he is now flung loose, rolling down the highway unprotected.

The Soldier crouches on the hood as the Jeep skids to a halt. One man extends an M32 and the asset takes it, fires. Steven Rogers raises his shield and the impact sends him flying off of the bridge, somewhere into the street below. Natalia Alianovna Romanov and the driver dive behind stopped cars as the other men fire. The Soldier advances, waits for visual of the mission before firing again. She vaults over the median, flipping through traffic, and when he takes a third shot, a car is sent flying over the edge right after her.

He discards the M32 and grabs the offered AR-15 with an under-slung grenade launcher, crossing to edge of the bridge, scanning for the mission below. He is taking aim at an overturned bus when a shot rings out from the street and sudden impact throws his head back.

The Soldier whirls, body slamming into a seated position against the cement guardrail of the causeway. His vision is splintered, face aching from a blow not entirely deflected. A numb hand pulls the goggles from his face. The mission

[ _ударила меня_ ]

landed a shot, one that would have

[ _убил меня_ ]

proved fatal if not for his protection. This has never happened before. He knows it without even remembering. He is HYDRA's perfect weapon and perfect weapons cannot be struck by enemy fire. The Soldier swallows back

[ _ненависть_ ]

shock, straightens, and fires a spray of bullets into the street beneath him. The mission returns fire and he ducks, reloads, shoots again. He continues to fire as she runs, watching her retreat until it is no longer feasible that he will strike her with this gun from this distance.

" _Она моя. Найдите его,_ " the asset orders, then drops from the bridge onto a car stopped below. He walks rather than runs after the mission. It is not necessary to increase his speed. She will not evade him.

When a police car approaches he blows it away before it can become a distraction. There are people running around him, away from him, and the Soldier ignores them as he cocks the grenade launcher, scanning his surroundings.

"—Repeat, civilians in perimeter—"

That is his mission's voice. His mouth twists behind the mask as he crouches, takes an explosive from his belt.

"—rendezvous two minutes—"

He lets the explosive roll toward the car his mission is hiding behind and stands, takes aim so that even if she sees the explosive and runs, it won't matter. The car bursts into fire and smoke and he turns to shield his eyes from the blast, to find the second mission, but then the female mission is there and she is kicking the gun from his hand and she is _on_ him.

The mission's legs are dangling off his shoulders, body pinned against him, pulling at his hair, and she has a wire at his throat and the Soldier brings his hand up to keep himself from choking. He staggers back, slamming her against a car, manages the leverage to throw the mission forward, retrieves his gun. She throws something as he takes aim and it affixes to the metal arm, glowing blue, shocking him and sending

[ _ярость_ ]

signals of danger from the limb to his mind. He cannot take the shot and the mission is running, and he ignores the electrical shocks stinging the weaker hand as he pries the device from his body. The metal whirs, tenses, and he clenches the fist, twists his shoulder to be sure everything is still working as he pursues.

The mission is screaming as she flees, words he doesn't bother to listen to because he is busy lining up a shot, and his mouth twists again. He fires. The mission seizes up, clutching at her shoulder, and ducks down beside a car. The asset jumps onto the hood of another vehicle, aims.

But then the second mission, the one with a shield, is charging at him from the side. The Soldier punches the shield, eyes widening as he _does_ feel vibration through it—why did he think that was impossible, why was he thinking about it at all?—and he kicks, knowing the strike will knock him back as well and bracing for the impact. He sits back up, firing, but the mission's shield blocks the bullets.

The asset drops the AR-15, rolls across the roof of the car, and lands on his feet off of its side, pulling the Skorpion from his back in the process. He fires at Steven Rogers through the car, misses, and while he is reloading, Rogers vaults himself over the car and kicks the machine pistol from the Soldier's hand. The Soldier spins to lessen the kick's impact, grabs the SIG from his thigh holster, and fires while Rogers brings the shield up to block him again, running forward, swinging at the Soldier's face.

The metal hand grips the shield, flesh hand dropping the empty firearm and punching at Rogers. He dodges a blow, grabs Rogers's shield arm and wrenches him around, prying him loose. Rogers begins to throw punches, shield arm raised as if he still has it on him, and the Soldier's metal arm sends him flying. Behind the mask, the asset is

[ _ухмыляясь_ ]

panting, adrenaline surging through his stomach as he stares at the mission over the shield. He knows he did not engage Rogers in combat during their last encounter, but there is something familiar in the way the man fights, something

[ _веселье_ ]

compelling in opposing him. He sends the shield flying and it embeds itself into the back of a van as the Soldier takes out the Gerber MK II, spinning the knife in his hand. He dives at Rogers, slashing and thrusting with the blade as he parries the mission's hits. One of the man's punches lands, then a kick to the stomach, and the Soldier is flying back against the van, metal crunching behind him. Another kick before he can regain his footing, and then Rogers is punching again. The asset raises his hands to block, strike, and Rogers grabs him, spins him in a

[ _танец_ ]

motion that sends him crashing into the pavement, but then he is back up and the stronger hand is around the mission's throat. He could crush his throat now, he knows that he could, but he

[ _хочет играть_ ]

throws Rogers back and over a truck, leaping onto the hood, shaking with

[ _восторг_ ]

adrenaline as he jumps down, fist shattering the blacktop where Rogers's head had just been. The mission stands as he does, and then they are simultaneously blocking and trading blows until the Soldier retrieves his knife again, this time holding it in his stronger hand. He kicks Rogers, stabs, and the man manages to stop the blade, but the arm pushes hard, slipping into the vehicle behind the mission, slicing in one long strip as the asset moves, trying to pull free and slash again at the man's face.

The mission ducks, grabs the Soldier's arms and back, and he is airborne, then striking the ground, and when he comes back up, Rogers has the shield again, and with it, he blocks a punch, a slash, but a second punch and a kick land. He moves to strike a third time, but the mission grabs the metal wrist, slams the shield against the arm, cracking it— _danger_ —and then his arm twists and the shield strikes the Soldier's face.

He is disoriented, unable to react when the mission's hand is on his mask, flipping him, and the mask is off as he goes flying, a sudden rush of air hitting a face no longer smiling. He rolls into a landing, dazed, pulling himself back up. It occurs to him, glancing at the damage to the arm, that this man could destroy him, given the opportunity. He cannot let the mission have that chance, no matter the odd sensation that accompanies a fight with him.

When he turns back, the mission's face gives him pause.

He doesn't remember the name for the emotion Rogers is displaying, but he sees no reason for it to be on the man's features at all. Is this a feint? An attempt to make him turn around and—

"Bucky?" the mission says.

The Soldier feels something like

[ _кровотечение в снегу_ ]

ice, shrugs it off. A trick. It will fail.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he asks without meaning to speak. He doesn't wait for an answer, taking aim.

There is a scream and a blow from behind, and as he is rolling he sees the missions' driver. With wings. He doesn't understand that, but he has regained his footing and the gun is in his hand and Rogers is in his line of sight, an easy shot and—

[ _ **I AM**_ ]

It is a scream inside his head and he freezes.

[ _I AM I'M BUCKY I'M_ _ **ALIVE**_ ]

He falters, forces himself to take aim, to ignore the screaming.

It takes him a moment to understand that the street exploding around him is really happening, and not a continuation of the chaos in his head. The female mission has retrieved his AR-15 and fired and everything is going to pieces

[ _I'M ALIVE I'M A_ _ **PERSON**_ _HE KNEW ME I'M BUCKY_ ]

and he can't breathe, can't focus, can't raise the gun in his hand and he flees, eyes wide, heart racing. HYDRA will kill him for this, they will put him down with a bullet between the eyes and he will deserve it, he is a failure, he is

[ _ALIVE_ ]

running and gasping and he cannot stop either one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended for this chapter to be less a blow by blow description of the fight scene from the movie and more of Winter’s inner monologue, but then I realized that he barely has an inner monologue and his mind would be perceiving the fight in terms of moves, weapons, etc. anyway. So what then followed was several hours of myself watching the fight scene in little ten second segments, over and over, trying to figure out how best to describe the action on screen. If it’s incoherent or just boring, I’m sorry. It just seemed the most fitting, in character way to recount it.
> 
> For anyone on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> ударила меня = hit me  
> убил меня = killed me  
> ненависть = hatred  
> Она моя. Найдите его. = She is mine. Find him.  
> Ярость = fury  
> Ухмыляясь = grinning  
> Веселье = fun  
> Танец = dance  
> хочет играть = wants to play  
> восторг = elation  
> кровотечение в снегу = bleeding in the snow


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would take place after the scene in the film in which Rumlow and company realize Steve and the others have disappeared from the van.

The asset is malfunctioning.

He must be, because he's stopped running, but his breaths are still shallow and insufficient though there is no cause for his body to remain winded. His heartbeat is too rapid for his current level of injuries and exertion. And the voice in his head has yet to stop screaming.

[— _ALIVE I'M ALIVE I'M ALIVE—_ ]

Молчи, he orders, but the voice does not be quiet. The Soldier tries to breathe, fails, walks. He has lost track of his surroundings, but if he moves he will find his way back to the rendezvous point. He always does. The location seems hardwired within him.

Though he has no way to be sure his knowledge of that is not malfunctioning as well.

Perhaps something became damaged in his head when the shield hit the asset's face. Can a fractured skull cause this, or a concussion? His body can repair those things, and HYDRA can restore what cannot be healed. They replaced his arm. If they do not put him down for failing the mission or break him further as punishment, they may replace his mind. He hopes—no he doesn't, he is a weapon—he would be best able to fulfill missions if his mind were quiet again.

The weak hand

[ _MY HAND I'M HUMAN_ ]

presses lightly against his face. There are no open wounds, no bleeding, only a faint tenderness where he was struck. His body rarely bruises, and this damage does not feel severe enough to leave a lasting mark on his skin. His hand lingers, pressing harder, as though he can reach inside his skull and scrape out the broken pieces.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he repeats, and the fist he drives into his face does not stop the voice screaming _I AM._

There are new symptoms of damage that accompany the recitation: a twisting in his stomach and a feeling of cold inconsistent with the temperature around him. The asset increases his speed, ignoring the burn in his lungs.

"Who…the hell…is Bucky?"

The hell. What is the hell? The Soldier said it without thinking, but how can he say things he does not know? He must have heard it before. Someone must have said it. He does not remember because it was not necessary for him to remember, but without remembering it should be impossible to recite. "The hell." The words are foreign, but his mouth does not stumble when it forms them. The phrase is alien yet as familiar as the weapons strapped about him.

The asset is panting for oxygen and he forces his body to be still, to inhale as deeply as his constricted throat and chest will allow. He cannot stop the tremors running through the weak hand, but it does not matter. None of it matters. He will find HYDRA and they will punish him and he will deserve if for failing, for being very bad, but then they will repair him and this will _stop,_ and he will complete the mission and HYDRA will save the world and he will be content again.

[ _Can't go back they'll take it again they'll take everything away_ ]

Everything needs to go away. His feet are faltering and the asset's teeth grind as he moves.

[ _I'm awake can't go back under won't go back_ ]

Why is the screaming English? He barely speaks English unless his handlers require it. He does not think in English. The asset recalls Romanov jumping onto his shoulders, Rogers's hands striking the Soldier's head and face and ripping the mask away. Is this a trick of theirs? Some sort of implant or precise damage to distract him? Foolish. HYDRA will reverse it.

[ _Not theirs I'm not theirs I'm human I'm not a machine I'm HUMAN I'm Bucky_ ]

"Заткнись!" The Soldier's lips draw back from his teeth as the sound tears out of him, unplanned, and then there is a hand on the metal arm and it is only the damage to that limb combined with the shout of "Stand down!" that keeps him from throwing whoever dares touch him.

But why wouldn't they dare? No one asks a gun's permission before they aim it.

His eyes follow the hand on his arm up to the man's face. Rumlow. Behind him is a black Jeep with another strike member, Rollins, exiting it. The Soldier realizes that he was headed the right way, that his memory of the rendezvous point was not malfunctioning, and he feels a glimmer of pride that weapons should not feel. "Where have you been?" Rumlow demands.

"What is the hell?" The asset braces himself for the blow that will inevitably follow his failure to answer, but he cannot keep from asking.

Rumlow stares. "What?"

"What is the hell?" he repeats.

"It's where we're going to be if you don't hurry the fuck up." Rumlow nods to Rollins, who grabs the other arm, and together they steer him toward the vehicle.

The Soldier bites back the sudden urge to shove the men and shout at them to keep their hands off. The desire is so immediate it is instinctual, but he's never had that instinct before. He is

[ _a person_ ]

HYDRA's to order and lead. Of course they can lay their hands on him.

"What's wrong with it?" Rollins asks as the asset is shoved into the backseat.

Rumlow shrugs, taking the seat beside the Soldier. "Nothing they can't fix. Shut up and drive."

The Soldier has the sudden thought of not _wanting_ to be fixed, and when has he ever wanted things? He should not be wanting, he should be out completing his mission. He has completed missions while damaged. Never with screaming in his mind, but that can be ignored. Would have been ignored, if he hadn't run away. Why had he done that? Why was he weak?

Rumlow is speaking into a phone beside him. "—secured the asset, on our way to you. There's damage to his arm, I don't know what else they did. Just be ready for repairs. Before Pierce gets there."

A thought occurs to him, a thought not about being a person, being alive, or being awake, and so he holds onto it. Rumlow is here. If the strike team is traveling back to the bank vault, they are not looking for the missions. If they are not looking for the missions, it follows that the missions are either secured or dead. "The mission," he says.

Rumlow pockets the phone. "Oh, _now_ you remember it."

The asset bites his lips.

[ _Go to hell_ ]

"Did the mission succeed?"

"No." Rumlow's hands are clenched against the fabric of his pants. "And I'm not gonna be the one to get my ass reamed for it."

He doesn't know what ass means. Or reamed. He's beginning to think that he doesn't understand most things, least of all the things happening in his head. "Who's Bucky?"

He can see Rumlow's eyes lift to the rearview mirror, follows his gaze to see Rollins staring back at them. "What?"

"He called me Bucky."

There is a pause. Then Rumlow's hands are gripping tight onto either side of his face, pulling his head forward until their faces are an inch from each other, eyes staring unblinking into his own. The asset thinks he remembers someone else holding onto him like this, long ago, but he can't remember feeling the hands. "Listen. Captain Rogers tried to kill you after you shot Fury. He's trying to stop HYDRA. He's the enemy. Got it?"

"He's the enemy," the Soldier repeats. He decides he likes repeating things. When he does so it gives him less time to think about anything else.

When Rumlow releases him it is a shove back. The asset's hand clenches and he knows he is malfunctioning because Rumlow is a commanding officer but the asset nearly hits him.

He draws his thoughts back to Rogers, because Rogers is his mission, his enemy, and that should give him focus, keep his mind off malfunctions and personhood until he can be repaired. _He is the enemy. He is the enemy._

For a moment it works.

Then a new thought joins the screaming, an impossible thought even more pervasive than the rest.

[ _I knew him_ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone on a mobile or otherwise unable to access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Молчи = Be quiet
> 
> Заткнись! = Shut up!


	12. Chapter 12

It is very quiet inside the vault.

The streets, even when the asset fled from the area where he'd engaged the missions, were full of sirens, screaming, people running and cars screeching away. Combined with the shouting happening inside of him, it was almost deafening.

Here, no one speaks. There were doctors muttering over the Soldier while he was led to the chair. They'd been noting abrasions, torn cartilage, cracked ribs, all the little things that hadn't threatened his ability to fulfill the mission and thus had been ignored, but now the only sound comes from the instruments repairing his arm.

The voice has stopped screaming, but somehow that makes it more difficult to ignore.

_I knew him._

No, he had seen him before. The man from the bridge had been there when he eliminated Nicholas J. Fury. He pursued the Soldier without success. That is all. Anything else is irrelevant and incorrect.

_He knew me._

The Soldier clenches his teeth. The voice is quieter now, but when it is quiet, it sounds as though it could belong to him. It slips in so readily he almost believes it is his own. The man did not know him. It was an obvious ploy to lower his guard that somehow succeeded. The man

[ _нет, миссия_ ]

cannot be the first one to have tried this. The asset has been taught how to extract information from the unwilling. He has been told that people, when they do this, can create camaraderie as a tool to use in retrieving what they need. The Soldier isn't capable of doing so, but he understands the principle. A trick to lower his guard or reverse his allegiance.

But the man didn't try to fight afterward. He didn't raise the shield in defense once the asset aimed his gun a second time.

A trick.

_A friend._

The asset doesn't know that word. The voice does not provide a meaning. Perhaps it is wanting for a definition as well. Perhaps now it will be quiet, and the sounds of his repair will be the only noise in the room.

The tools in his arm whine and whir, and his body is tense and his mind is elsewhere, a place with snow and isolation and Zola. He can feel the cold of this place down to his bones—not all the bones are cold, some are missing—taste it at the back of his throat. It tastes like death and something called hopelessness?

" _Sergeant Barnes."_

He is staring up at the man from the bridge, wind and ice howling around them. The man's face is full of something he cannot name, a look different from the one on the street but no less vivid, deep as the red on his uniform. " _Bucky, no!_ " He is reaching, but the Soldier is falling, screaming.

The fall becomes the ground, and the ground is hard and cold and the red that leaks out is darker than the uniform of the man on the bridge before the fall, dark and frozen in trails on the asset's skin. His arm is neither metal nor flesh, but gone, bleeding, and they are dragging him, they are over him with bright lights and gloves.

" _The procedure has already started."_

A saw is buzzing, slicing at flesh and his eyes are wide, hair in his face, breathing distressed, but no, his arm is there, it's metal, and there's nothing to cut and they are fixing it. But he can still see the flesh stripped from bone and how can his hair be in his face, it's not long enough, he hasn't let it get that far from regulation, hasn't—

" _You are to be the new fist of HYDRA."_

He is on his back and the metal hand is new, gleaming, and he _won't_ be HYDRA's, _never_ HYDRA's. The hand closes around a throat, he could crush it as easily as he could snap his fingers, but the man is gone and Zola, Zola is smirking down at him. That bastard, Zola's turning him into their monster, taking away—

" _Put him on ice."_

He is in the tank but how can he be in the tank when they were just fixing his arm, when the mission is not complete? There is a face in the glass he doesn't know, and he reaches toward it, but the hand that touches is metal, cold, monstrous, and he doesn't want to _be_ a machine, he's alive. There's a person here but the name is missing and he has to be stronger than this because the man on the bridge but not on the bridge said he was stronger, but everything is cold and he's lost and—

The asset throws out his arm and the men go flying. He hears panic in the room, notes the guns that spin toward him, but it is far away. He is still seeing his arm cut loose and the face in the glass freezing, mind full of "Bucky" and "I'm alive," and all the Soldier wants is for it to stop. But he can't want. People want.

_ Я не _

[ _I am_ ]

_ человек _

He thinks of the man on the bridge. He thinks the man on the bridge would tell him it is all right, the way his handlers do when he comes out of the ice. He thinks he wants the quiet of the ice again. He thinks there are no dreams in the ice, and then he wonders what a dream is. Does the man from the bridge know? Would he tell him?

He does not realize Pierce is in the room until he feels the backhand across his face.

For a second it is the worst hurt in the world, because he has failed. He is HYDRA's

[ _I am no one's_ ]

and they saved his life, gave him purpose, and he has failed them. He should be begging forgiveness, he should be beaten, but when his mouth opens there is no apology. "The man on the bridge…who was he?"

He can be good again, if he knows. If he can quiet the struggle in his mind, he will be theirs again. He will do all they want. But now he is like a machine missing a component. They will help him to run again. They always have.

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," Pierce says.

It is true. He knows it is true. But it is not _sufficient_. And HYDRA has always been sufficient. Why aren't they now? What is happening to him? Is he broken beyond their ability to repair?

"I knew him," he says, averting his eyes. He is being bad. He is being _broken._ But he knows, for the first time in forever, he _knows_ that the man on the bridge was familiar to him before this week. To think of all the implications of that knowledge is to be sick and malfunctioning—the man named him, and names are for _people,_ and how can he be one?—but he _knows_ and that knowledge is vital, precious. He can't relinquish it. He has never had something to hold onto, and now that it is his he will not let go.

Pierce sits. The asset's eyes are on him, desperate. He is the handler. He knows everything. Handlers know what to do to make things better, or to guide the mission back on track. He will make everything all right.

"Your work has been a gift to mankind," Pierce says. "You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we're going to give it a push. But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine. And HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

They need him. They need him and he is being a disappointment. Those should be the words to repair him, make him useful again. He can help the world and HYDRA will be happy and he will be content.

But he is not content. He is not content because he

[ _is human_ ]

is thinking of the man on the bridge and he thinks if that man were here, he would take the human hand in his and vow to stay by his side until the chaos in his head is over. Was the man on the bridge his handler? Why does he feel this connection? Why does the man make him feel as if he is alive? And why doesn't HYDRA have the answer?

"But I knew him," he says. He does not say _Please tell me this is real, please help me understand, please hold me and fix this and make it stop,_ but he hears it in his voice. He raises his eyes, meets his handler's gaze

[ _like a person_ ]

and the eyes feel wet when Pierce stands and looks away.

"Prep him."

"He's been out of cryo-freeze too long," a doctor says.

The Soldier knows what Pierce will say before he says it. _Please, please no. Please don't take this—_

"Then wipe him and start over."

Something inside the asset shatters. He hadn't thought there was anything left to break.

They take his shoulders, pushing him back to recline in the chair. His eyes meet Pierce's again, and he feels a surge of something, something like what he felt after Romanov shot his goggles, but amplified a thousand-fold. He feels

[ _hate_ ]

defiance, and even as he opens his mouth for the bite guard instinctively, he can feel the heat from his eyes.

[ _You think you can break me I'm back now you've already failed you'll fail again I'm not yours I'll remember I'll remember everything_ ]

But then the chair clamps around his arms and the sensation is replaced with that which always accompanies the wipe: chest heaving, eyes wide, stomach churning with adrenaline. _Don't,_ he wants to beg around the guard in his mouth. _Don't take this from me please it's mine I'll never want anything else I just want to remember him don't hurt me it's going to hurt I don't want it to hurt please don't hurt me_ —

There is pain, and the darkness follows, but not swiftly enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those on a mobile or who otherwise can't access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> нет, миссия = no, the mission  
> Я не = I'm not  
> человек = a person


	13. Chapter 13

He has no mask.

The Soldier cannot bring to mind his previous missions, but he knows that when he completed them, he wore a mask. It is the same innate and ever-present knowing that he feels when he picks up a weapon and automatically understands how to fire, reload, field strip. He can almost feel the mask wrap around his face, as though it is a natural extension of himself. As though it were grafted in like the stronger arm.

The asset finds it unlikely that he lost the mask, because there is no punishment when they are readying him for the mission and the mask is not there. It must not be necessary to fulfill his objective. Perhaps it is a matter of stealth, though when they brief him, he is not told to conceal himself. He is given the name and face of his mission and told to prevent him from interfering with the helicarriers, to kill him at all costs.

There is a nameless sensation when the Soldier looks at the photograph, as if he ought to feel something but has come up empty-handed. He brushes it aside. Weapons should not be feeling at all, even if what they feel is absence.

The feeling that is not a feeling is easily pushed away, forgotten in its entirety by the time he is on the hanger that rises out of the Potomac. The mission and his comrade with the wings are already airborne when he arrives, each on a helicarrier. He does not know what they hope to accomplish. He does not care. It is not his objective to know what they are doing, only to prevent it, to ensure HYDRA's success.

He will not fail.

There are pilots approaching the Quinjets on the hanger. They are not his mission, but they aim to aid the mission, and so they must be dealt with. "All SHIELD pilots, scramble!" their leader commands. "We are the only air support Captain Rogers has got."

Then he will have no air support. The Soldier fires the grenade launcher and a Quinjet is crashing to the ground, exploding into a mass of flame that catches some of the pilots in the blast radius. He advances, firing twice, and rendering a number of them either dead or inactive.

One man approaches with a grenade, but a volley of bullets to the throat knocks him back, gargling and suffocating in his own blood. The explosive rolls toward the Soldier and he stoops to grab it, then lobs it inside the closing door of another plane. It blasts apart behind him as a member of the line crew fires at him. The asset knocks the gun from his hand and kicks him into the engine of a Quinjet just beginning to lift off.

 _Two birds with one stone,_ he thinks, without knowing what it means.

He jumps onto another jet, stands atop the glass of the cockpit and takes aim. Three shots into the pilot's head. The Soldier tears the door away from the Quinjet and slides inside, lifting off without bothering to fasten the safety belt. The mission and his man have reached two of the helicarriers and he will not be slowed and risk them doing damage to a third.

He arrives before the mission, exiting the jet and waiting amidst the storage containers. When the mission arrives, his ally with the wings is carrying him one handed before he deposits him on the deck. The asset wonders why the weight distribution does not tear the man's arm from the socket. Perhaps it is something in the wings, or he is built like the Soldier but the metal is hidden under flesh.

It is unimportant. There is no reason to be thinking of it. The mission is within striking distance now and the Soldier lashes out, knocking him over the edge of the deck.

The winged man shouts something, flies forward to retrieve the mission, but the Soldier has his wing. He throws the man backward, but the wings stabilize him in the air and his hands grab hold of guns, then shoot. The asset flips, spins away from the line of fire. He takes cover behind the nearest structure and the winged man is off again, but the Soldier pulls a grappling line from his belt and fires, latching through a wing.

He tugs his wrist and the man is pulled back to the deck. Another pull and the wing rips away. The asset is running forward as the man stands up, and before the man can regain his balance or attempt any sort of defensive strike, the asset plants his foot in the center of the man's chest, knocking him back.

It does not seem possible to fly with only one wing, but he watches the man's descent anyway just to be sure. It only takes seconds. The man is spinning through the air, off balance, and then the other wing goes flying away and a parachute emerges from the pack. It keeps the man from hitting the roof of the Triskelion at terminal velocity. He is alive, but grounded. Even if he finds a way back up, it will not be in time to prevent HYDRA's success. And that man is not the mission anyway.

The mission is not dead, as the asset had thought may have been the case when he knocked him off of the helicarrier. He knows this because he hears the mission shout, hears a

[ _familiar?_ ]

voice below him. The mission is hanging from the very edge of the helicarrier, pulling himself up toward an exhaust vent. The Soldier's mind is running through every vent, exit, and entrance within the helicarrier, every place the mission could go or hide. He can be there before the mission, and he can strike before the mission realizes his presence. He is a _призрак_ ; they never see him.

The Soldier is turning to go when he hears the mission's voice again. Not aloud, not speaking through a communicator as he had been when the asset first located him after the fall. It is in the Soldier's mind, unearthed, like scabbing torn off of recent damage.

" _Bucky?"_

There is flood of impossible thoughts that follows the voice—the memory?—so sudden and strong his feet nearly give out beneath him. He feels _human,_ feels

[ _like Bucky_ ]

trapped as his body runs through emotions he cannot name, feels a connection toward the mission that he has nothing to compare to. It is not the imprinted trust he feels for a handler. Deeper, like

[ _friendship_ ]

a programming that has always been there but that he has somehow never noticed. It is so immediate that he has no chance to protest these sensations, no choice but to experience them, and when he can finally think again—he shouldn't be thinking—all the Soldier can manage is a quiet, defeated

_Oh._

Then, because he cannot fight HYDRA's orders but he cannot fight this new _knowing_ either, he thinks

_How can I kill him?_

But how can he not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that the Winter Soldier's standard method of attack displayed in the movie is to strike before his target can notice he's there, I have to assume that his just standing on the bridge of the helicarrier as Steve approaches means he was already starting to remember again and didn't want to fight. Hence the remembering here.
> 
> On a side note, after my grandmother watched the movie, she said that the way the Winter Soldier flips and spins when he fights reminded her of ballet, and now whenever I watch the action scenes for writing purposes I can't get that out of my head because she was totally right.
> 
> For anyone on a mobile or who cannot otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> призрак = ghost


	14. Chapter 14

The Soldier is waiting on the bridge, gun in hand, when the mission appears. The man was running at first but he slows and stops, staring at the asset. His eyes are full of something that hurts to look at, that makes the feelings worse and the English voice louder. The mission's hands are at his sides, body exposed. The Soldier could take a shot. He thinks he is fast enough to fire before the mission can raise the shield.

[ _I know that shield I know that man he saved my life_ ]

The asset does not move.

"People are gonna die, Buck," the mission says. It is the name he heard in his mind

[ _MY NAME_ ]

and to hear it reaffirmed sends hesitation through him, from the center of the chest and out. This is his mission. There can be no hesitation. This is his

[ _FRIEND_ ]

purpose, to do as HYDRA commands. And HYDRA has commanded.

"I can't let that happen," the mission continues. But the asset stands between the mission and whatever the mission has come to accomplish, and the asset will not—cannot—move.

He tries not to hear the mission's words. But if he does not listen to the voice, all he can do is stare at the man, and the man's uniform

[ _You're keeping the outfit, right?_ ]

is something that he cannot look away from. It's as if the Soldier has never seen colors before, as if his eyes are malfunctioning to make the red, white, and blue so vivid. It looks as if the mission has stepped straight out of one of the films HYDRA used to show the asset, films he did not remember before just now, about how repulsive and selfish and stupidly loyal to their government Americans are. He wants to feel sick. He feels

[ _Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!_ ]

dizzy and his breathing is heavy even though he stands still. It's not the right kind of sickness. It will not help him fulfill his objective.

The mission shakes his head. "Please don't make me do this."

 _Убей его_ , the Soldier commands himself, and why has he not killed him already?

[ _BECAUSE I KNOW HIM_ ]

 _Нет,_ no, no he does not. He has never seen this man before today, he has never spoken to him or served with him or protected him or any of the impossible things he is thinking. He—

The shield is flying through the space between them and he barely has to move to deflect it, but the mission is advancing while the Soldier aims his gun and his shots are deflected. He is moving backward as the

[ _FRIEND STOP DON'T FIGHT HIM_ ]

mission swings the shield, firing and spinning, blocking the man's blows, but he is _backing up._ He is on the defensive, and the asset is _never_ on the defensive, never spotted until he's already fired and what is wrong with him? He _cannot_ be this weak. He fires again and the blow must glance because the mission cries out, and

[ _NO_ ]

when he launches himself forward to take the advantage of that, to take the offense, the shield knocks him back and the gun is flying, and _enough._ His teeth are bared as he pulls out the knife, and _shut up, stop it,_ this is his mission and he will succeed and there will be no more weakness and crying inside his mind. But the mission is blocking his attacks and the ones that do land aren't debilitating as they should be. His body is holding back and he wants to scream, slam the metal arm against his own head until everything is quiet and running efficiently, but he doesn't have time to stop and recalibrate.

The mission knocks him backwards, runs to the console, and begins to interfere with the machinery inside. _Did he do that to me?_ the asset wonders—why in English?—as he gets back to his feet, charging. _Is that what's wrong_?

[ _NO HE FOUND ME HE SAVED ME_ ]

Before he can reach him, the mission has turned and again he finds himself on the defensive, finds himself _weak._ The human hand holds the knife and the Soldier forces it not to shake as he braces the stronger arm against it, shoves, tries to drive the blade into the

[ _FRIEND_ ]

 _mission,_ the _body,_ that's all he is. But the Soldier is kicked back, the knife lost, and the mission is at the console a second time, and _no._ No, even if his body is malfunctioning, the mission cannot succeed with his task. He charges, drives his fist into the shield.

The asset braces his feet against the floor, but it doesn't prevent him from being shoved back. He hears himself panting, grunting, making

[ _human_ ]

sounds that his targets produce when he is eliminating them. As if he is a person. The mission's fist strikes his face and he screams, diving forward. They are both flying over the guard rail, the mission's shield hurtling away from them.

He doesn't feel the impact as his body slides down, only pulls himself back up and rushes at the mission. There is a hail of blows between them and the Soldier is not perceiving correctly. He should see each strike, focus on the most damaging and effortless placement, but instead his mind is full of

[ _he hit me he's my friend no he attacked me no I know him I trust him but he HIT me but_ ]

chaos. He backhands the mission, sends him flying back, slides after him, and as he descends he sees the mission grab hold of a computer chip. He doesn't understand the significance of the object, but once the mission is back up, the Soldier knocks it from his hand and further below in a rush of

[ _spite?_ ]

feeling. There is screaming in his mind

[ _YOU HIT ME YOU CAN'T HAVE IT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE MY FRIEND_ ]

but it is not the voice begging for the fight to stop, because that voice is still shrieking in the background. It's his own voice, and English again, and he doesn't understand when or why he began thinking in that language.

The mission's elbow strikes his face and the asset is falling over the edge despite the scramble his hands make to hold on.

He sees the mission jump down and run straight for the object without a glance toward the Soldier. The asset's vision is going red at the corners, body heated and shaking with an emotion he cannot name. He can't name any of them and they're overwhelming and he feels as if he could collapse.

Grabbing the shield, he stands, sends it flying. The metal strikes the mission in the back, right between the shoulders, and he goes down.

[ _he deserved it NO HE'S MY FRIEND he hit me_ ]

The Soldier fires over and over, the shield blocking every shot, and when the shield goes flying at him again, his arm effortlessly knocks it away. Retrieving a second knife, he runs toward the mission. That voice is still pleading, but _HE HIT ME_ repeats in his mind over and over and repetition of _MY FRIEND_ does not prevent him from driving the blade into the mission's shoulder. The mission slams his head against the asset's, once, twice, and the Soldier shoves him aside without a look back, eyes falling to the computer chip on the floor.

It is precious to the mission. The asset dives for it, because his body malfunctions when he tries to kill the mission, but he can take this, grind it to dust. The weak hand—his hand—closes around the chip just as the mission grabs him, and then he is in the air, the mission's hand clenched around his throat. His scream

[ _MY FRIEND HE'S HURTING ME MY FRIEND IT HURTS_ ]

is choked and brief. He is thrown back down, body striking glass, one of the mission's hands shoving at his face and the other pulling his arm back. "Drop it!" the mission orders, and the Soldier can feel his hand

[ _human useless_ _ **weak**_ ]

begin to loosen at the order until he forces it to clench again, striking out with the strong arm simultaneously. The blow is ignored, the mission shouts "Drop it" a second time, and there is a resounding crack as his arm is forced from the socket.

The pain is immense. That which accompanies it

[ _DON'T HURT ME WHY ARE YOU HURTING ME YOU'RE MY FRIEND SAVE ME YOU'RE NOT MY FRIEND YOU CAN'T BE IT HURTS WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS_ ]

is worse.

His arm is dangling in the mission's hold but his hand stays tightly shut and he tries to knock the man away but only succeeds in falling backward on top of him. The mission's arms wrap around his throat, squeezing, and his vision and hearing are going dim. The Soldier's mouth contorts, desperate for air

[ _HE'S KILLING ME HE'S MY FRIEND HE'S KILLING ME WHY STOP DON'T_ ]

and the stronger arm grabs at the mission's hand, trying to save himself, but the mission forces the metal down, wraps his leg around it. The asset is pinned, struggles going weaker as his thoughts begin to drift.

[ _friend…you're my friend…why…_ ]

He can feel his hand loosening just before things go dark, when he has no power to prevent it.

When he comes to, the chip is gone from his hold and the mission is flipping himself back up, headed for the console. He won't make it. The Soldier is a perfect shot, and the space between them isn't more than thirty feet. He

[ _a sniper didn't I used to be a sniper I saved him once I know I did_ ]

aims with the metal hand. It is less precise than the weak one, but from this distance, it won't matter. He fires.

The blow glances the mission's leg and the asset doesn't understand how he missed a fatal shot, why he _aimed_ at the leg.

Another shot. He means to strike the head but finds himself aiming for the arm. Why is he so broken this way? He is failing HYDRA, failing the world, falling to pieces.

[ _he's my friend_ ]

Friends, the asset knows, without knowing what a friend _is_ or how he knows anything about them, do not strangle each other. They don't dislocate limbs. And weapons don't have friends.

He changes his position, fires a third time. This shot strikes the torso.

He lowers his gun as the mission falls. For a moment, the Soldier feels as though he is watching from a distance, as if he's just woken from cryo and is in the strange period when feelings surface and nothing seems real.

He needs to reach the console, injuries notwithstanding. He needs to shoot the head or slit the throat, be sure of success.

But then the voice that had been stunned into silence is shouting again.

[ _MY FRIEND I KILLED MY FRIEND HE SAVED MY LIFE I'M KILLING HIM HE SAVED ME HE FOUND ME HE KNEW MY NAME I KILLED HIM MY FRIEND_ ]

The shot will prove fatal if unattended. He has succeeded in the mission. Why does success hurt?

He stands, numb, blank, paralyzed, even as the helicarrier shakes and explodes around him. He does not know where the shots are coming from. The asset does not care. By the time he sees the beam crashing down upon him, crushing him, it is too late to move. He doesn't try. He is stuck, screaming, and when he sees the mission staring down at him from the platform, he wonders if the man will finish him off.

He thinks that death is quiet, and quiet would be welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially intended this chapter to cover everything from the start of the bridge fight to the shore of the Potomac, but that would have been ridiculously long and I didn't like the flow of trying to write it all at once, so I decided to end here for now. Also there's only so many times I can watch this scene for research in one go without collapsing into a puddle of feelings and sobbing over Steve and his WWII uniform to try and help Bucky remember, and God bless you, Steve Rogers. And as someone who dislocated her shoulder twice as a toddler and can still remember the pain of it, that fight is just brutal to watch.
> 
> For anyone on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Убей его = kill him  
> Нет = no


	15. Chapter 15

The asset remains resigned to death until it becomes apparent that the death will not be immediate. Minutes go by and he is still lying there, crushed, pinned down and unable to do anything but think and feel. He doesn't want to do either of those things, but as has been the case all day and possibly longer, his mind is not giving him a choice.

He has failed his mission. He has failed Pierce, HYDRA, the world. He is a weapon that has failed to strike his target and as such he is so worthless that, were his guns within reach, he might put himself down. He is broken and his continued existence is a mistake. The asset struggles—if he can free himself and eliminate the mission then maybe HYDRA will want him again—but he remains trapped, a constant and hurting reminder of his failure. He thinks he can feel the air slowly pressing from his lungs, and that gets the voice started again.

[ _no I don't want to die please I can't die I'm awake now I can be again I don't want this_ ]

It doesn't matter what he wants. Wanting, in addition to being entirely inappropriate for the asset, does not move the beam. All the wanting accomplishes is causing him to hyperventilate, lose air faster, make him struggle and gasp

[ _like a trapped animal_ ]

and when he hears the mission move, he stares at him, wide-eyed and heart pounding. The man has come to kill him or to watch as the life fades from his body. He fights harder, achieving nothing, eyes blank and uncomprehending when the mission kneels near him and begins lifting the beam, shouting with effort.

The man's actions are incomprehensible and the asset is overwhelmed, reacting on pure instinct. The beam is lifting and he manages to free the metal arm, uses it to push himself away and scramble to freedom. The dislocated arm is cradled against his body and he is hunched on the floor, aching, hardly able to move. Part of his mind screams to finish the mission and the other part wants to run and hide from all of this until things inside him are quiet again. He is caught between the reactions, paralyzed.

Until the mission speaks.

"You know me."

The mission is pulling himself upright and the asset does the same. Even while something in him is insisting _Yes, yes, I know you, I trust you_ , and he is losing his balance, he feels his blood boil. Who the hell is this man, to make him feel things he never wanted to feel and can't even name, to try and treat the asset like a human without even thinking that maybe the asset does not want to be a person?

He is falling, but he manages a punch while he does. "No I don't!"

"Bucky," the mission pleads, hauling himself up a second time.

The asset recoils inasmuch as he can while faltering on unsteady legs. Every time the mission says that name it hurts, and every time the Soldier feels on the verge of collapsing. Collapsing is not an option. Fulfilling mission is the only thing that matters. It is the only thing that ever matters and once this man is put down, everything will make sense again. It has to.

"You've known me your whole life."

Life? What life? His life has consisted of a tank and a chair, and sometimes locations where he points a gun or slices flesh. That is his life. Where was this man for any of that?

[ _no he was there he stayed with me I remember he was there_ ]

No, he couldn't have been. Because if he were, he'd have saved the asset from—from what? What was there to be saved from? He was a weapon and he was utilized appropriately, and the thought of needing to be saved only demonstrates that the mission has damaged or infected his mind and must be eliminated. And this man wouldn't save him even if he needed it; he just choked the asset and dislocated his shoulder. The Soldier shouts, backhands the mission, falls a third time.

When he gets back up, the mission is speaking again. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."

"Shut up!" he screams, knocking the mission back. He doesn't _want_ a name, he doesn't _want_ to be, he doesn't want to feel or think or do anything but go back to the cold and dark and safety. Everything he has ever known or understood is going to pieces like the helicarrier around them and he is

[ _horrified_ ]

not going to let the mission tear down any more of his world.

When he gets to his feet, the mission has removed his helmet. The asset stares at his

[ _familiar_ ]

face and he thinks he could fall into the mission's arms and stay there, which doesn't make any sense because the only ways to touch he knows are combat and punishment and that is neither of the two.

"I'm not gonna fight you," the mission says. He lets the shield fall into the water beneath them. "You're my friend."

[ _friend I want to be your friend no you can't just tell me that's what I am I don't want this I don't want any of this you can't force it on me I don't need a friend I don't want a friend I don't_ ]

The asset shouts, tackles him. "You're my mission," he insists, because he is, because that's _all_ he is and the Soldier refuses to let him be anything else. He punches again and again and the mission is no longer speaking but the asset's mind is still flooded with _thoughts_ he can't shake, mind searching for memories that aren't there. "You're! My! Mission!" Each word is punctuated with another blow, and the mission's face is all bloody and the asset thinks that's a familiar sight, thinks that means he should be protecting instead of striking, and though he forces his arm back another punch does not follow.

"Then finish it," the mission says, as the Soldier stares, panting, not comprehending the man's behavior. "'Cause I'm with you 'till the end of the line."

The asset is frozen as if he's back in the cryo-tank. His heart is going so quickly that it's a deafening pounding in his ears, he can barely breathe, his head is spinning and hurting and he doesn't _understand,_ doesn't understand what this man is doing, why he's feeling the things he is or feeling at all, doesn't understand what line he's talking about or why it's making the asset act this way or—

[ _Steve_ ]

The mission—the man—his name is Steve.

It's all he can remember, but it's enough. He knows Steve, somehow. And Steve knows him.

[ _Steve, what have I done to you_?]

And if Steve knows him, that means the person—James Buchanan Barnes—that's him. Because Steve wouldn't lie. The asset is a person.

He's a person and the glass is shattering beneath them before the Soldier can react to what it means to be human. The metal arm reaches up and grabs hold of the beam to keep from falling, acting on instinct so deeply programmed that even the shock of being alive can't impede it.

Below him, Steve is falling into the water.

He won't have the strength to swim to safety. The mission is completed.

[ _no the mission doesn't matter Steve matters he's my friend_ ]

The Soldier hesitates. There has only ever been the mission. Without a mission, without orders, he is lost.

[ _I'm a person I can choose_ ]

He doesn't want to choose. He doesn't understand how to be a person, how to feel and think and act autonomously. It's

[ _terrifying_ ]

not something that has ever entered his mind and he has no way to cope. The world was so much smaller this morning and he wishes it were that way again.

But Steve is slipping below the surface of the water, and the Soldier thinks, _No._

He doesn't understand why he lets go of the beam, why he swims and searches when he reaches the water instead of letting the weight of his arm pull him down. They could drown here, the two of them. They could

[ _go to the end of the line_ ]

slip away and everything would be quiet and he'd be here with the man who makes him feel, but without having to feel anything.

But it is because Steve makes him feel something that he can't drown. He feels something he doesn't understand, but still knows that it is precious. It's a feeling that he must shelter and protect as if it were his handler, or some state of the line weapon he must be very careful with. So when he finds Steve under the water, eyes closed, he pulls him to the shore.

Water is leaking out of Steve's mouth when the Soldier deposits him on the sand. His body is breathing. The asset thinks _You never did know when to give up_ without understanding why he thinks it. He stares down at Steve. The man is bloodied and bruised and his face manages to be familiar and wrong all at once. The Soldier straightens up. He thinks he is frightened. His world is gone.

But he is alive now, even though he never wanted to be. He chose to save Steve. He can choose. And he has a name. There was a person in this body once and maybe he can find that person again, find out who James Buchanan Barnes was and what relationship he had to Steve. Maybe if he finds James Buchanan Barnes he can figure out why Steve makes him feel so frightened and strange and alive.

So he chooses to go and find Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Because Steve wouldn't lie." From here on in the fic, the Soldier's belief in Steve's total honesty becomes a running theme. I just want to clarify that I don't think Steve is always honest - the movies show him lying all the time - but the Soldier's thinking is black and white and he views Steve as the ultimate good who leads him to the truth, hence the misconception that Steve doesn't ever lie.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll note that, in this chapter, Winter thinks in Russian again. The reason why the distinction occurs in this chapter but didn't in the previous one is that then, the Soldier's mind was in complete panic mode and reverted back to the language it originally knew. In calmer circumstances, at least for now, there is still enough of a distinction between Bucky and Winter that the language shift remains.

The world is vast now, open and unaffiliated. The Soldier's view has always been trisected into three categories: HYDRA (obey), mission (eliminate), and other (ignore unless otherwise ordered). Being no longer HYDRA's tears away his system for ordering data. HYDRA provided the classifications, told the Soldier whom to shot and whom to leave be. And now he lacks that.

He lacks as well the doctors who kept him functioning, the ice that let his body rest. The more the Soldier thinks the more things he realizes he is losing, and his chest feels as if he's pinned beneath the beam again. It would be simplest, safest, to return to HYDRA, beg for their forgiveness, and submit to whatever punishment

[ _Я заслуживаю_ ]

they would inflict. They may not kill him. Their helicarriers failed. The need for a weapon may outweigh the damage of his transgressions.

But then he thinks of the chair and makes his second choice: not to return.

He feels sick when he makes this choice, even sicker than he did the last time, and so tries to recalibrate until the sensation stops. A mission. He does not function without a mission, so he must assign one. The mission is to find James Buchanan Barnes. He has no idea how to find the man or what he will do once he does, but it is a mission and it allows him to breathe again.

The first step of a mission is always the intel. HYDRA gathers it and briefs him on the target, the time table, any potential complications, and so on. But HYDRA is not here to provide the information—they would take what little he knows now out of his mind if he were to seek them out—so he must gather it on his own.

As soon as he nears the populated areas of DC, the Soldier revises his plan so that the first step is concealment. His head aches a bit when he does so—a mission out of order is almost as disconcerting as no mission at all—but it is necessary. He must be either inconspicuous or operate only in the dark, and the more time he spends in one place waiting for nightfall, the greater the odds that someone will find him.

HYDRA will come looking for him, either to retire their broken machinery or to reprogram him. That is a given. But there will be others. Enemies of HYDRA, agencies that may want a Winter Soldier for their own purposes. Possibly the American government. He is, after all, in the capitol of the country and the HYDRA helicarriers did just crash into the Potomac. It is likely the government will retaliate somehow.

They will be looking for an asset in tactical gear with a metal arm, with dark hair the length of the Soldier's. So the first objective is different clothing, concealment. He finds himself stalking through trees along a suburb, and some of the homes have clothing on lines in their yards. No one sees when he approaches. He doubts anyone is watching their yards; they are all focused on the televisions displaying the destruction at the Potomac. He sees one such television through a window before he slips into the residence's tool shed to change.

He is able to undo the straps on his vest and holsters, but when he moves to pull the turtleneck over his head, the dislocated arm does not respond.

The Solider stares at it, considers the methods to put it back into place. He clears a space on the floor and sits with his knees to his chest. The hands go in front of his knees, human fingers laced with cold metal, and he leans backward slowly, driving his knees forward at the same time. Pain flares, but the arm slides back into the socket. The limb is tender, the joint swollen, but his body will heal it quickly enough. He heals faster than people do.

He replaces the vest and holsters once the turtleneck is off. They can be concealed under the new clothing, and the vest will provide some protection should he be attacked. The only remaining weapon is a knife from the back of his belt. He slides it to the front before pulling a black shirt, short-sleeved, over everything. It is loose enough to conceal the leather and strapping beneath. It does not conceal the arm, so he takes another shirt, blue, long sleeved, with buttons down the front, and layers that over top. His arm is covered save for the fingers, but it fits close to the skin and to the metal of his limbs, makes the differences in the shape of either arm too pronounced. There are jackets hanging in the tool shed so he takes one of those over the other garments. If his hand stays in a pocket, he will perfectly concealed.

The pants are replaced with blue denim that is only slightly loose. There is a workbench with a familiar sort of hat

[ _baseball cap_ ]

resting on it, and he takes that as well. His hair can go beneath it and the brim will block his face from any surveillance equipment he may encounter.

The layers of fabric and leather make things warmer, but the Soldier has been trained not to respond to temperature. His body is functioning and disguised, and what matters now is the second step of the mission: intelligence. Where he is going to find information about James Buchanan Barnes is yet to be determined. He remembers, if he strains, buildings that have books in them. He remembers that Steve Rogers is a war hero. There must be things written about him. Some of those things may mention Barnes.

So he leaves the residential area and walks the streets of other districts, reading the words on each building, glancing in windows and trying to recall what the places with books are called. He is so intently focused that he nearly misses the glimmer of red, white, and blue out of the corner of his eye. When the Soldier turns, there is a bus pulling into a stop, an advertisement on its side. The shield that Steve dropped into the Potomac

[ _rarest metal on Earth and you sent it out to sea, you punk_ ]

is displayed, accompanied by text. The Smithsonian. It's not, he thinks, the building with the books, but it is the most promising lead he has.

*

"A symbol to the nation," a voice announces from nowhere as the Soldier enters the exhibit. His hands clench and it is only the nonchalance of the people around him milling in that keeps him from pulling the knife. "A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice."

The voice from nowhere continues and the Soldier had intended to move with purpose, find the information relevant to Barnes, collect it and go before anyone can get a good look at him. But his eyes fall on a photograph imposed upon the wall just inside of the entryway and he finds himself immobile. It's Steve, but small, impossibly small compared to the man he just pulled from the water, but impossibly familiar as well.

 _Pre-Serum_ , the text over the photograph reads. _Weight: 95 lbs, Height: 5'4"._ There is another photograph on the wall, with a Steve who looks like the one the Soldier pulled from the water. _Post-Serum: Weight: 240 lbs, Height: 6'2"._ His mind converts the numbers to metric automatically, but even before it does he recognizes how absurd a transformation it is.

[ _Did it hurt_?]

It must be a lie. Propaganda using Steve as its symbol. The Soldier doesn't know what serum the wall refers to, but it is either fictitious or greatly exaggerated. But looking at Steve, small and fragile, he _feels_ a truth more than he remembers it.

[ _Never even occurred to me to stand up to those bums until I saw a shrimp like you do it._ ]

The exhibit explains the serum, details how its creator was killed before the formula could be reproduced. He thinks it sounds convenient, false. He thinks lies are the American way. But then he thinks Steve is also the American way and if that is true, then the Soldier will have to revise his views on America. The country must be important to Steve if he bears its name. Maybe it was important to Barnes as well.

He moves slowly through the rooms. The Soldier has been trained to note and memorize every detail, but he lingers at each display after he has done so, as if proximity to the objects and photographs will bring memories. Sometimes there are flashes: He looks at a black and white photograph and knows the colors everyone is wearing. He smells gun powder, remembers the itch of Barnes's jacket on display. But for the most part the experience is just as blank and unconnected as staring at a mission's dossier.

 _While on tour in Azzano, Italy_ , the Soldier reads, _Rogers saved 163 lives – including his best friend Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes_. But if Steve had rescued him, why has he been HYDRA's all this time? The displays say that Steve was frozen in ice as well; had Barnes been with him? Why would HYDRA take a sniper rather than a super soldier if the pair were unearthed? Perhaps they were separated.

Then he finds himself before the display of James Buchanan Barnes.

"Best friends since childhood," the voice says, "Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country." There is video accompanying the photographs and text about Barnes, black and white, of a smiling, laughing person in a

[ _green_ ]

sweater and dog tags. He looks so alive. The exhibit states that he died in 1944, at the age of 28. He fell from a train

[ _Steve I can't feel my arm_ ]

and just days after, Steve drove the Valkyrie into the ice, where he remained for decades.

No. The Soldier is too confused by the timeline to have a reaction to the lack of memories provoked by Barnes's display. In what little of the fall he remembers, he remembers Steve over the broken body. This information is wrong. Compromised. Something must be hidden, because Steve recovered Barnes. They were taken together. This is a cover story and he will find the truth.

The Soldier follows behind a man into what he takes for another display until he is through the door and finds a room full of stalls and a sink. There is a mirror over the sink and he stares into it, unsure if he's ever seen his reflection before. The lines of the face, under the scrapes and the hair growing, match Barnes's appearance. But Barnes looked alive in a way the Soldier cannot begin to try and emulate.

There is a sound of rushing water behind one door and a young man, perhaps sixteen, emerges with a phone in his hand. He sets the phone down, washes his hands, and when he exits he does not retrieve the phone, leaving it lay on the countertop.

HYDRA let the asset use a phone in the past. He can't remember the missions, but he recalls transmitting information, files or research or something his handlers required. Phones can access the Internet, he knows, and the Internet holds information. The phone disappears into his pocket and he walks until he reaches the far side of the exhibit, away from where the phone's owner will look upon realizing its absence.

The Soldier knows what it means to be an asset. He knows what it means to be a winter soldier, to be one who does not shrink from service in a crisis. But he does not know what it means to be James Buchanan Barnes, and the information here is not providing him with a definition he can grasp. He is already a soldier, a sniper, but he is not Barnes. He can't be a friend as he doesn't know what it means to be one.

 _Barnes name definition_ , the Soldier searches, and the first result reads "Derived from Old English beorn (warrior). By another etymology, one who works in a barn, or a person who lives near a barn."

Warrior. Soldier. He can be a soldier, but James Buchanan Barnes was more than that. _Buchanan name definition._

"From Buchanan, house of the canon, beech wood." But James Buchanan Barnes is from Brooklyn. _James name definition._

"Biblical meaning," the first result reads. "That supplants, undermines, the heel. Hebrew meaning: He grasps the heel."

Supplants. James Buchanan Barnes has the name of an usurper. Why would the champion of a country choose a supplanter for a friend? It's a fitting name, he supposes, for one used as a weapon against what is meant to be his best friend, but it provides no clue as to what Barnes was before the undermining.

The definition the phone provides for "Bucky" is "diminutive of Buck. A male deer." The Soldier cannot decide if it is preferable to James. Nor does he understand how "Bucky" was derived from "Buchanan" when the two don't even share the same vowel sound.

He begins to think that human names do not signify purpose in the same way that an asset's designation does, but "Steven" means "wreath, crown, victorious," while "Rogers" means "fame and spear," and to see Steve's meaning so clearly displayed in his name makes the title of "heel" ache in the Soldier's chest.

Whatever understanding of James Buchanan Barnes he hopes to unearth, the name cannot supply it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Я заслуживаю – I deserve
> 
> I decided against having Bucky recover his vocabulary for emotional words/things that wouldn't have been brought up in his time as the Soldier along with recovering his knowledge of being alive, because as far as I can tell, language doesn't work that way. If it's not used, it's lost, even if one is exposed to a television or radio or something like that. In particular, I thought of the case of Elisabeth Fritzl, the Austrian woman who was held captive by her father in a basement for 24 years. Elisabeth's language capacities were found to be greatly diminished upon her rescue, even though she had access to a television, and had her children and father to converse with. Technically, I'm probably overestimating Bucky's language capabilities, although from his perspective, it's been maybe two years at most (likely only months) since he fell from the train, so retaining most language beyond the emotional might not be that far out of the question.
> 
> I'm going with the dates the Smithsonian provides for Bucky's life in the movie, 1917 – 1944. A deleted scene in the Avengers gave Bucky's birth year as 1922, but since 1917 is the date that actually made it into movies, that's what I'm using.
> 
> There are definitions for the name James that aren't so depressing (there are three men in my family who have some variant of James in their names and I doubt any of their mothers would have chosen it if that's the definition they'd heard) but that really was the first thing to come up on Google. His search for meaning through an understanding of his name is sort of carrying on the naming power from the movie (that is, Steve gives the Winter Soldier a name and the Soldier almost immediately begins to act more autonomously). It's also a nod to the _Captain America: First Vengeance_ comic that came out before _Captain America: The First Avenger_ , in which Bucky is very insistent on being called either James Buchanan Barnes or Bucky and gets indignant when Dugan tries to nickname him Jimmy.
> 
>  _First Vengeance_ also provided the line about "never even occurred to me to stand up to those bums," which is what Bucky says upon meeting Steve for the first time as a child.


	17. Chapter 17

It strikes the Soldier that searching full names rather than individual components may be advantageous, and that is how he discovers Wikipedia.

When the entry for James Buchanan Barnes loads, the Soldier glances through the images before reading the text. The visuals in this exhibit have sparked more flashes of memories than the text, so the same may hold true here. But he has already seen every picture on the page displayed in the Smithsonian, save for two: a color photograph of a gravestone, and a black and white photo of a woman holding an infant. The Soldier stares at the second image for a full minute, waiting to understand its significance, before he gives up and glances at the caption. It's Barnes's mother. He reviews it again with that in mind and for all he remembers, he may as well be staring at a wall.

He reads the full entry and it is like reading an especially detailed mission briefing. He reads Steve's article and it contains the same misinformation that Barnes fell alone and that Steve was not taken with him. It says that Steve was asthmatic before the serum and the Soldier remembers a small body struggling for air, eyes dimming. He feels a rush of something—is this how he would feel if a handler were threatened?—and under the jacket sleeve pulled up to conceal it, his metal hand nearly shatters the phone.

Is this a memory? There's no logic in responding this way if Steve's body is no longer asthmatic. Why is it that remembering and malfunctioning seem to run in tandem?

Steve's article is much longer than Barnes's. It directs to many other articles, such as one specifically devoted to the serum, which the Soldier also reads. He reads the history of WWII, the entry on the Howling Commandos, the article on HYDRA, and others, before returning to Steve's page. There is an entire section on Captain America in Popular Culture, whatever Popular Culture is. There are apparently movies about Steve's life. There was, during the War, a comic about Captain America, one bound like a book rather than displayed on a news page, as the Soldier thinks he remembers something called _Little Orphan Annie_ being distributed. Barnes is portrayed in the comic as well, but he seems incongruously young and his clothing is far from regulation.

He hears a child giggle more than he remembers it. _Ooh, Bucky, you're so tall!_ He doesn't know the source of the memory, but he doesn't know the source of most of the flashes he's experiencing.

Images. The only rhyme or reason he can isolate to what triggers the recollections is that they're provoked by looking at things. James Buchanan Barnes lived in Brooklyn for over two decades. If there is any place to find imagery that could make the Soldier remember things Barnes would know, he thinks it would be Brooklyn. Or battlefields overseas, but without HYDRA's resources, Brooklyn is more accessible.

He locates the GPS function on the phone, memorizes the route. The Soldier takes one last glance at the uniforms on display. There should be a mannequin in the center in Steve's uniform, the one he wore on the helicarrier, but instead there is a blank space. As if Steve had come here and taken it, but the Soldier thinks without knowing why that Steve wouldn't commandeer another's property unless there was no other recourse. The thought makes him glance at the phone he holds and he deposits it back into the room full of stalls before he leaves the Smithsonian. The phone is a potential way to be tracked if he keeps it with him, anyway.

The Soldier first intended to walk to Brooklyn—his shoulder has stopped throbbing when he takes steps—but it is three days on foot and only four hours by car. He has no vehicle, but he has a memory, a knowledge that if one moves along the side of the road with their hand extended out a certain way, it means that person is in need of transport.

After half an hour of traveling that way, long enough to reach the interstate, he is beginning to think the memory is corrupted. His arm itches, losing circulation, and there are sensations in his throat and stomach he can't recall feeling before. His body is heavy, as if he is carrying excess weight. Perhaps he is programmed to break down if he remains away from HYDRA for extended periods. It seems likely and when a semi-trailer truck pulls to the shoulder of the interstate, stopping just before it reaches him, he wonders if they have come to collect him before he shuts down entirely.

"Need a lift?" the driver asks.

The Soldier does not know his face. Not that HYDRA let him remember faces. He knows over a thousand processes to kill a man and if it becomes necessary, he can think of several methods to utilize the vehicle itself as a weapon.

"Brooklyn?" the Soldier asks. None of the video footage of Barnes at the Smithsonian contained audio. He wonders what Barnes sounded like. Like the Soldier, or similar yet wrong, the way their faces match but one is full of life and the other empty?

The man is not going to Brooklyn, but he is headed close enough. The Soldier moves into the passenger seat and though his hand stays in his pocket, he can have the knife ready in under a second.

"You see that shit at the Potomac?" the driver asks.

The Soldier nods.

"Fucking mess, isn't it?"

If he asks what fucking means, the Soldier thinks he will become conspicuous. So he doesn't react.

"So what's in Brooklyn?"

"A man." He nearly leaves it there, busy calculating the best places to stab should the driver prove hostile without compromising his own bodily integrity, but he feels eyes on him and thinks that must not be an answer a person would give. "A. Uh. A friend. I need to see a friend."

The Soldier can't read the look he is given. "Ah," is all the driver says. There is a pause. "Mind if I turn on the radio?"

No one has ever asked if the Soldier minds something before. He has no idea if he minds and makes a sound in reply that signifies nothing. Provide ambivalent data and it will be read to the interpreter's bias. The radio is switched on.

It is dark when they part ways, with few cars on the road. The Soldier wonders when he exits if it would be best to eliminate the driver, safest, but to terminate without an order seems

[ _I am not this person_ ]

faulty, wrong. The thought of killing someone with an order is also beginning to seem wrong, but that is all the Soldier has ever known and to change that constant makes him dizzy, so he stops thinking of it. He begins to walk in the dark and the sun is rising when he enters New York. It is daylight by the time he reaches Eighth Avenue in Brooklyn, when the sight of the church stops him.

It is called St. Saviour, and while he has no memory of it, the building looks as though it may have existed when Barnes and Steve lived in Brooklyn. Moreover, it is on Eighth, which the Internet has told him is where Steve grew up, and it is Catholic, which the Internet has told him is Steve's religious affiliation. He steps inside.

There is a service

[ _Mass?_ ]

underway in the sanctuary, and he stands in the entryway, observing. The ceremony is in English, with the priest facing the parishioners, and something in him says it should be Latin, says the man should face the altar, says that there should be veils on the women. Maybe this is not a Catholic church after all. Or maybe his thoughts are faulty.

The Soldier waits until nearly everyone has filed out before he steps into the sanctuary itself. There are some people lingering behind, kneeling, with their hands in a configuration that he thinks signifies prayer. He wonders if James Buchanan Barnes ever prayed. He wonders if machines can pray, and if anything would listen if they did.

The image of the building itself stores no memory, so he stands before the statues. There is one of a veiled woman standing in an alcove, her hands pressed together before her chest. Her eyes are downcast. By her foot is the head of a snake, and she crushes its neck beneath her heel.

He thinks he is meant to kneel or bow before he goes, but he also thinks that applies to people, not to weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terrible ideas: Reference _Little Orphan Annie_ early in the chapter. Spend the rest of the writing time with "Hard Knock Life" stuck in your head and end up inadvertently mentally merging the plots of _Annie_ and _Captain America: The Winter Soldier._
> 
> In the original Captain America comics, Bucky is fifteen (and is from Indiana, which, yay, he's from my state, and also he runs around in what I have dubbed a "patriotic onesie"). Since _The First Avenger_ demonstrated that Captain America comics exist in universe, I figure Bucky may have been included in them. And been de-aged to appeal more to kids, because, hey, the USO wants to make money.
> 
> In the post-credits Smithsonian scene, the space where the Captain America mannequin should be is blank. Presumably they didn't have a spare Cap costume, so they removed it.
> 
> In the _First Vengeance_ comic, Steve tells Bucky he lives on Eighth when first they meet. Of course, this is when he's a child and he says he's living in an orphanage because his mother recently died, which directly contradicts the flashback scene in _Winter Soldier_ showing Steve's mother dies when he's an adult, but it's the best I've got. St. Saviour's is a real church that was built in 1905, so it's possible Steve could have gone there (I don't know if he's Catholic in the film universe, but his family's Irish-Catholic in comics. I couldn't find any information at all on Bucky's religious beliefs). I have no idea what days of the week the event of _The Winter Soldier_ were taking place, but according to their website, St. Saviour's have a service every single morning, so I guess it works.
> 
> Catholic history: In the 1960s, there was a church council called Vatican II that modernized and relaxed many of the church's standards. Mass no longer had to be said in Latin, women didn't have to wear veils, the priests faced the congregation rather than the altar, etc. Back in Steve and Bucky's day, the Catholic church was much more formal, so I imagine a modern Catholic service would seem rather different than what they were used to.
> 
> The Virgin Mary crushing a snake under her heel is an incredibly common image in paintings and statues of her. I don't know if the statue at the real St. Saviour's includes it, but it's likely.


	18. Chapter 18

His body is losing the ability to regulate temperature.

The metal arm remains cool to the touch. The Soldier cannot recall it ever feeling warm. His arm has some process that keeps it from overheating, that keeps the warmth from the rest of his body at bay. And his body is warm. Generally, he thinks, the heat is controlled through the leaking of fluids and salt through the skin, which is what had been happening during the walk into Brooklyn and the day prior. But that process has suddenly ceased.

He's never needed to perform maintenance on himself before. HYDRA was always there to provide it. He cannot, replaying what little memories he has of HYDRA attending to him, determine how to emulate the upkeep. Everything was provided in tubes and syringes. He remembers injections when he would come out of the cold, substances that made the shivering stop and helped restore him to full functioning.

Once he was restored they would switch to the tubes, clear plastic lines that carried everything in and out of his body. Whatever fluids they hooked up to the tubes were also clear, whether it was the small injections into the line that halted his consciousness or the bags that dripped substances into the tubes for hours. He has access to none of that and he is not sure he could place an intravenous line without causing an embolism even if he did have the necessary tools.

It has barely been twenty-four hours since he left the care of HYDRA and already he is beginning to break down.

The English voice, the one that wanted so badly to be a person, has no suggestion for how to keep the body functioning. It only returns to _water_ , over and over again, and water brings to mind Steve, unconscious and wounded, the water from the Potomac leaking from his mouth. It makes the Soldier think of injuring Steve, of how they could have drowned together and how his body would not be malfunctioning. He refuses to dwell and dismisses it.

Heat is not unlike pain. There is pain as well—something is happening in his throat that he thinks is called soreness—but he can continue without letting either sensation delay him, so he does. His body may adjust. Even if it does not, so long as the experience does not escalate, he can function around it. He will have to readjust his plans, expend less energy than he could if functioning at full capacity, but he will manage.

The first adjustment is not to move without the cover of darkness. There will be less exposure to the heat of the sun that way, and so less chance of elevating his own temperature. Beyond that, there will be fewer people to around to slow him, notice him, or track him. Will HYDRA have realized their asset did not go down with the helicarrier by now? The Soldier thinks it may have been stupid to come to Brooklyn straight away: the foolish, easy targets return to their homes. And while this isn't home—home is a quiet and icy tank—this is the body of James Buchanan Barnes, and this was where Barnes lived. But maybe HYDRA will not think to track a machine the way they track people.

The Soldier finds a desolate building and takes refuge within. It is not completely abandoned; he can hear others inside but they are so loud in their movements that they cannot be assassins or any sort of agents. He catches glimpses as he ascends the levels and his mind says they are vagrants, whatever vagrants may be. He takes a vantage point that allows a good view of all sides around this location, in case of ambush, and watches, waits.

He thinks he remembers more people smoking in the 1940s than he sees on the streets now. He wonders if Barnes smoked, but his fingers do not form the configuration that holds a cigarette without conscious thought, and why would Barnes smoke when he had an asthmatic friend?

 _Earaches_ , the English voice thinks, and the Soldier does not understand why. The pain is in his throat.

That sensation has intensified by nightfall, though he has been careful to do nothing to further exacerbate it. Has he become sick? Perhaps without the injections from his doctors, his immune system does not function. Perhaps he swallowed some contaminant or bacteria from the Potomac, and that is why the word "water" is repeating in his mind.

The building where the Internet said James Buchanan Barnes had lived has been razed and replaced with another. He could break in, but what point would there be? If standing in a specific location could restore memories, then he would be Barnes by now.

Barnes might know how to fix the pain in his throat. He thinks, from the light in Barnes's face in the Smithsonian footage, that Barnes was good at being human.

It takes far longer than it should to reach the building where Steve had lived. The Soldier had not realized he was capable of becoming lost until it had already happened. He will turn a corner only to find it is the opposite of the one he intended, and will then double back only to find himself in an entirely new location. He feels vertigo and his heart does not beat in rhythm. It speeds up and seems to thump more times than it should.

He feels fatigued, the way his body reacts after HYDRA administers the injections that put him to sleep. His head is aching in time with the broken rhythm of his pulse, and when he turns another corner and finds himself looking at Steve, it takes a full five seconds before he reacts.

Steve looks just as he did on the helicarrier, bruised and cut. The stain from the gunshot to the stomach is vivid and dripping. The Soldier knows this isn't possible—even with the effects of the serum he read about, Steve should not be here and standing, not after a day—but the plausibility is of no consequence, because it is happening.

Steve opens his mouth and the Soldier runs.

He is panting even though he has barely begun to move, mind simultaneously whirling and dragging. Steve has found him, but he is a weapon now, an assassin, the thing that Steve stops.

[ _No he wouldn't fight me he said_ ]

If they aren't going to fight then Steve must want him as a weapon, because the Soldier possesses no other value, but he can't _be_ an effective weapon around Steve, he'll malfunction and then he'll be thrown away. Or else Steve will want him to be _human,_ to be Barnes, and he can't be that man and a day of humanity is already killing him.

The Soldier trips. Over his own feet, from the feel of it. He does not have time to look down before his body is striking the pavement and skin is scraping as he slides to a stop, rolling off of the sidewalk and into the gutter. A water bottle, discarded and half-emptied, rolls against the grating by his head. He pushes himself with one scratched hand and one metal one, until he is on his knees. His hands brace against the asphalt, prepared to push off and run.

" _Стоп_."

He does not fully stop at the order, glancing over his shoulder.

Steve has returned. But not the Steve that he just saw, the one with the bullet in his stomach. This is the small Steve, the fragile body in the Smithsonian's pre-serum photo. It's impossible but the Soldier's head is reeling, his throat feels as if he's been stabbed, and his tongue seems too large for his mouth, and Steve being shorter is strangely not strange in this circumstance.

" _Я думал, ты выше_ ," the Soldier mutters, words hardly coherent, the skin of his lips cracking. He realizes he spoke without prompting and prepares himself to be struck. He does not think this Steve will have much in the way of striking force, but he thinks it will still hurt badly.

Steve does not approach him, pointing past the Soldier's body. " _Пей_ ," he orders, and the voice is familiar, but he does not recognize it as Steve's. Maybe Steve sounds different in Russian.

The Soldier stares, confused, and Steve advances, points again, and he sees the water bottle and sees Steve's hand, a hand he cannot feel, brush against his flushed face. " _Ты горишь, дорогой. Пей_."

He takes the water bottle from the gutter, twists the lid, sips. He cannot recall ever drinking, but his body—Barnes's body—seems to know what to do. Was water the fluid in HYDRA's tubes? He drinks until the bottle is empty. " _Ты мой хозяин_?" he asks. Steve is giving the instructions now, and Steve was Barnes's commanding officer. Steve knows how to be a human. It makes sense for Steve to be his handler. He thinks he will be safe that way. He thinks his mind will be quiet.

There is an impact in his chest, reverberating through him, but Steve has not told him to feel anything and so he ignores it. His eyes are warm, and the metal hand wipes at them instinctively, but there is nothing there to clear away. Why should he want autonomy now? He has never needed it before. He will be better off without it.

Steve does not answer, neither in the affirmative nor the negative. Instead, he glances at the empty bottle. " _Пей больше_ ," he orders, " _пока боль не утихнет_."

The Soldier stands, walks. He must find more to drink more, and once he has done so he will return. He will let Steve lead him, no matter what Steve's appearance, to whatever location Steve desires him to be in. He will follow his orders, serve and shelter him, and he will learn to be content.

But when he returns, stomach full of water and body no longer on the verge of collapse, Steve is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find any solid resources on if hallucinations begin on the second or third day of dehydration, but considering that injuries also contribute to dehydration and Bucky was badly injured from the helicarrier stuff before his healing factor kicked in (in fact, for all I know the healing factor could also contribute), so hallucinations in the second day of dehydration didn't seem like too much of a stretch.
> 
> Earaches: There's an old folk remedy which persists to this day that blowing pipe or tobacco smoke into another's ear will cure an earache. Which is the sort of thing I could see Bucky doing for Steve during a cold.
> 
> For those who are on a phone or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Стоп = Stop
> 
> Я думал, ты выше = I thought you were taller
> 
> Пей = Drink
> 
> Ты горишь, дорогой. Пей. = You're burning up, dear. Drink.
> 
> Ты мой хозяин? = You are my master?
> 
> Пей больше, пока боль не утихнет. = Drink more, drink until the pain stops.


	19. Chapter 19

The Soldier had not thought a cemetery could be so active.

He did not understand, when he read the location of Steve's headstone on Wikipedia, why the marker was not removed when Steve was recovered from the ice. Gravestones are for the dead, which Steve is not. He would be dead if the Soldier had not failed his mission, but he tries to shake that thought from his head. The mission was wrong.

Thinking that makes it feel as though the glass of the helicarrier is giving way beneath him again. Weapons do not question their assignments, and he bites his lips. He should be punished, should punish himself as HYDRA isn't here to do it. He can likely administer a more effective beating than they are capable of anyway.

But he doesn't want to. And while he shouldn't want—it is bad to want—that doesn't keep the Soldier from feeling it. He has already been so bad that wanting is likely a minor entry on his list of transgressions. He thinks he likes wanting, and will continue it until he is ordered otherwise.

He also likes that Steve's headstone is still here.

It is more of a monument than a grave marker and from a distance, it is covered in colors. Up close, there are flowers, some singular and some twisted together with wire and ivy to form crosses and circles. There are cards, letters, some with thick, illegible writing pressed in crayon, some in small and flowing script. "THANK YOU FOR NEW YORK" one reads, its text smeared as though the paper has been rained on. Around the base of the gravestone are small, stuffed bears and eagles, pillows crocheted in the shape of Steve's shield. He sees old and worn scarves that he thinks are regulation styles and colors. There are red and pink markings—is it called lipstick?—on the parts of the granite left exposed. There are jewelry and crosses and things he does not know the names of.

Looking at it all, the Soldier thinks he understands why the headstone was not removed. This is gratitude, yes? He knows gratitude; he has felt it for HYDRA, for his arm and the weapons and purpose they provided. He has never done something like this, because assets have no possessions to bestow and do not give gifts, but the concept is not wholly alien.

He wipes at his mouth because his lips began to leak red when he last bit them. The hair on his face is longer. HYDRA must have had a way to prevent that, maybe a process that occurred when they put him to sleep, but he doesn't know what it was that they did. Perhaps it is something that regulates itself when he is unconscious, but without ice or syringes, the Soldier does not know how to sleep.

There are many things he does not know, the Soldier is realizing, things beyond "who is James Buchanan Barnes" and "how can I be a person?" But he has determined that he runs off of water, and while there is still pain in his stomach and his body responds slower than it ought to, he is no longer ill. He will endure.

Beside the monument to Steve are two smaller graves, occupants that share the surname. Joseph and Sarah Rogers. Their headstones are also decorated, though nowhere near the extent of Steve's. He finds himself staring at Sarah Rogers's grave, again hearing more than remembering.

_We looked for you after. My folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery._

He feels impulse, acts on it the way that he would in a mission. But the impulse in a mission is to break, wound, disable, and the impulse now is to touch his lips to Steve's grave. His mouth leaves a mark, a tinge of dark red against light stone, and he wipes it away, impulse fading. Steve is a hero. The weapon of Steve's enemies should not deface his monument.

The grave of James Buchanan Barnes is located in another cemetery.

The Soldier wonders as he travels to it if there is a casket beneath Barnes's headstone. There was no body to recover. Would they bury an empty box? He can see no purpose in doing so, but he understands that people act without purpose sometimes. According to the Internet, James Buchanan Barnes liked to dance. What purpose is there to that?

When he reaches the graveyard a bus is pulling away, orange-yellow in color with children seated inside. There was a bus like that headed toward Steve's cemetery when he left it. Steve and Barnes are history, he imagines, history or propaganda. Either way, they seem to be serving as some sort of lesson.

He walks past the grave at first because it is decorated with cards and flowers, and everyone who cared about James Buchanan Barnes is either deceased or Steve Rogers. And having shot Steve multiple times, the Soldier doubts he is receiving cards from him.

Once the Soldier doubles back he stares down, uncomprehending. It is not as revered as Steve's grave but there are three daffodils resting at the center, held together with a bow of yellow yarn. Hanging from the bow is a piece of paper. He lifts it, reads. _With gratitude, Mrs. Royce's third grade class, P.S. 059_. To either side of the flowers, propped up against the rock, are cards of folded construction paper, drawn on with pencil and crayon.

_Dear Bucky, thank you for keeping the USA safe. Your a hero._

_Dear Bucky, I read you were Captain America's best friend. Captain America is so cool, I bet you were cool too._

_Dear James, my name is James to! You are really awesome._

_Dear Bucky, I want to fight bad guys and keep the country safe like you did when I grow up._

_Dear Bucky, Thank you so much. Are you Captain Amerca's guardin angel now?_

There is liquid leaking out of his eyes, leaving stains on the paper. His vision blurs and he blinks to clear it, setting the rest of the cards down before he can damage those as well. The dizziness from the night prior is back, and he steadies himself by bracing the metal hand against the headstone as he pulls the water bottle out of the jacket and drinks. The water does not make the vertigo subside.

The Soldier stares at the ground beneath him, wondering again if there is a casket. He wants to tear at the dirt and find it, conceal himself within and drown in soil rather than water. James Buchanan Barnes should have died falling from the train. If he had, he could be a friend and a hero. The Soldier is neither. His existence is a mistake, an aberration, an insult to everything Steve has accomplished. And if Barnes couldn't prevent himself from becoming this weapon, then Barnes must have been weak and unworthy of Steve's friendship. Steve had pledged to be there until the end of the line. Barnes had broken away before they reached it.

James Buchanan Barnes's grave is flanked by either parent. On the left, George Barnes, and Winifred Barnes on the right. He knew their names from the Smithsonian. The dates say they survived their child and he thinks they must have died believing Barnes to be dead. Believing him to be a hero. And while he thinks that is better—he does not want the parents to hurt as he does not want Steve to hurt—the rest of the world believes it too and it is a _lie._ The Soldier cannot lie. He cannot bend the truth. He cannot omit it or conceal it. He is programmed to be honest and the reverence, the veneration of this undermining traitorous failure is _not_ honest.

He shakes his head, stares at the mother's gravestone as he tries to collect his thoughts, tries to believe he is not responsible for the lies of others. What did Barnes call this woman? Mother? Мать? Mama?

There is a whir of metal and a sensation of crumbling beneath his hand, and the Soldier turns his head to find that his metal fingers have tightened and crushed the portion of Barnes's headstone beneath them. Cracks are running through the rest of it, out from the point of impact.

 _Good_ , he thinks. The Soldier stands and he is leaving just as another orange-yellow bus arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the standard comic continuity, Bucky's parents are long dead before he becomes Steve's sidekick. However, I haven't been able to find any tie-in comic stating when they die in the film universe, and as they're both alive in the flashback in _The Winter Soldier,_ I figured they also might have lived through their son shipping out and presumably dying.
> 
> I also haven't been able to find any information on whether or not Bucky's sister Rebecca exists in the MCU, so in this story she does not.
> 
> In case you wanted to let me know about the misspellings or grammatical errors in the cards to Bucky, they were intentional.


	20. Chapter 20

The residents of Brooklyn, the Soldier will discover, are strongly attached to the memory of James Buchanan Barnes.

After leaving the cemetery, he mulls over encountering three buses between Barnes's graveyard and Steve's, and decides it wise not to seek out anything else related to his past until nightfall at least. If their graves are serving as a place of education, then other locations relating to them may be utilized for the same function. And the Soldier's strength is in being a _призрак_ ; he cannot be one if he places himself in situations where he can be seen by potentially the same group of people multiple times in a day. For all he knows, someone who glimpses him could be HYDRA. Does HYDRA use children? He thinks they might if it were advantageous.

And HYDRA is only the first entry in a long list of those sure to be looking.

So he spends the rest of the day concealed in the vacant building where he'd stayed the day prior, waiting, flipping the remaining knife in his hands. He does not want to lose the muscle memory associated with his weapons, with his own body. With HYDRA, that was never a problem he can recall. The Soldier is not sure how long he spent resting between missions, but he thinks each time he woke, he did not sense a passage of time. There was never an opportunity to lose what he'd been taught, because he never stayed awake long enough for it to fade.

Now he can't sleep, can't practice with any guns or combatants, but he can flip the knife. So he does until the sun goes down.

Once the sky is dark and the noises of traffic and pedestrians outside are only intermittent, he vacates the location. There is no set destination when the Soldier moves tonight; there must be things Barnes experienced in Brooklyn that are not written about, and systematically traveling the streets until he finds something that triggers a memory seems to be a reasonable objective. The locations he knows of have barely sparked recollection, so why not explore the unknown?

His body has begun to function irregularly again.

His eyes are the main source of error. They keep sliding shut when he does not will them to, for periods longer than a blink. Sometimes his neck seems to stop supporting the weight of his skull and his head drops down when this happens as well. His vision will swim and his eyes will feel strangely warm. It may be related to the water leaking from them at the graveyard, but that has not happened again.

His hand has begun to shake, though not enough to interfere with his ability to hold a weapon. He feels warm again, flushed but not thirsty, dizzy if he stands or turns quickly. It's not quite a memory but he thinks this is how it felt to come out of the tank, only lacking the cold of cryo. The injections stopped the sensation then. He doesn't have those injections now. And his stomach is still paining him, accompanied by a pressure lower in his abdomen that he can't identify, perhaps in the intestines? None of it threatens his functioning, not yet, but neither had thirst at the beginning.

It is as if he's been given a needlessly complicated new gun and has been sent out with no instructions on how to use it. Or, more accurately, as if he stole such a gun and ran away. He bites his lips again; HYDRA wanted him to kill Steve and he will never do that, but that doesn't stop the overwhelming sense of wrongness that comes from disobeying his handlers.

The Soldier tries not to focus on the malfunctions, tries only to note any new irregularities before returning to the mission at hand. Brooklyn had not seemed large until he'd decided to examine every part of it on foot and while he covers a fair amount of ground before the sun is rising again, he feels he has achieved nothing beyond accelerating whatever is wrong with his eyes.

It is still mostly dark when vans travel through the streets and begin depositing newspapers in locked bins on the sidewalks. The Soldier takes cover in an alleyway, making sure the vehicle is gone before he returns to look. There is a large picture of the wreckage at the Potomac, a headline about the damage and another about an information leak from SHIELD online.

The metal hand shatters the plastic window and drags out one of the papers. He returns again to the vacant building to take in the information. HYDRA is exposed according to one of the articles on the front page, and keeping up to date on what he can of HYDRA, of Steve, is vital.

He reads. He finds he can read English more quickly than Russian, even with the way his eyes involuntarily shut. He learns that the female mission, Natalia Alianovna Romanov, released all of SHIELD and HYDRA's files onto the Internet while the Soldier was on the helicarrier with Steve. The paper says Steve is expected to make a full recovery. The article does not mention if the Soldier was a part of the leaked information. He needs to borrow another phone or find some other way to access the Internet and look at everything exposed.

And, he decides, once he is finished with the world news and finds the local section beneath it, he needs to leave Brooklyn.

The bus that reached the cemetery as he was leaving contacted the authorities in regards to the damaged headstone. He knows this because it has made the front page of the local news section, complete with photographs. There are quotations within the article, the teacher who called the police describing the damage as "devastating" and the authorities saying it shows a "shocking disrespect for a national hero." Children on the bus say they saw a man in a blue jacket and baseball cap walking out of the graveyard. Toward the end of the writing, after a brief history of James Buchanan Barnes's role in WWII and estimation of the damage costs, there is speculation on why the grave would be vandalized. One theory is that this is a protest of Captain America's recent actions in DC, or the act of someone whose criminal activities were exposed in the information leak, seeking petty retaliation by targeting something sentimental to Steven Rogers.

The people of this city are so convinced that James Buchanan Barnes is a hero, that even now, seventy years after his "death"—the Soldier has finally learned the current date from the newspaper—they are "devastated" by damage to his headstone. He feels sick. He also feels that he has drawn attention to himself unnecessarily, that he should be beaten for it, and that he should leave Brooklyn.

But leaving in the daylight—and it has become full daylight in the time he has been reading—when there is a description of him in the paper, would be a senseless risk. He will stay indoors, decide on his next destination—possibly back to DC, because he cannot imagine anyone would expect him to return or think to look for him there—and leave in the night. It is a logical plan that goes to pieces when he runs out of water.

The Soldier has worked out that water is essential to survival. Beyond that, he has no understanding of how it works or how often it is needed. He only knows that he was near death the last time he went without it and he does not want to reach that state again. He can retrieve water, return to concealment, continue to wait. If he zips the jacket and removes the hat, he believes his appearance will be altered enough that no one will connect him with the man mentioned in the newspaper.

His hair feels limp when he slips the hat into a pocket. It hangs down, almost heavy. It seems there is no part of him HYDRA was not maintaining, and it makes his head hurt to wonder what else he's missing.

Not far from his location is one of the buildings full of books, which he has learned is called a library. He knows that libraries are public buildings, and he believes they should have either a water fountain or the room with the stalls and the sinks. He is tense when he enters, prepared to neutralize every person within his line of sight if he must, but no one glances in his direction. When he finds the room with the sinks, there is another man there, with stained clothing and hair that hangs the way the Soldier's does. He is scrubbing at his face and then at his hair with the water from the faucet. After a moment's observation, the Soldier does the same before refilling the water bottle.

He is almost out the door of the building when he hears someone speaking.

"—News 12 was at the cemetery last night and now CNN and NBC are down there to—"

NBC. It stands for National Broadcasting Company. The Soldier has no idea if that is knowledge that was once relevant to a mission or a fact left over from Barnes's lifetime, but either way, the N stands for national. He has made national news.

He wonders if anyone else in the world has ever managed to fail so utterly at being an inconspicuous human in less than a week.

Traveling back to the vacant building at the fastest pace he can move without breaking into a run, the Soldier keeps one hand on his knife, ready to respond should anyone attack, approach, or look at him in a way that suggests either will follow. He is exhausted, and by the time he is indoors it is all he can manage to sit down before his eyes involuntarily shut again and he doesn't have the strength to make them open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While fatigue, dizziness, shakiness, etc. are all symptoms of hunger, I also imagine that HYDRA would have kept the Winter Soldier on mood stabilizers and some form of sedation, so he's also in withdrawal for that, because I can't pick on this character enough, apparently.
> 
> I figure national news outlets (particularly the 24/7 ones like CNN) picking up "defacement of a war hero's grave" wasn't too out of the question, considering I once witnessed CNN run a story about a knot in a tree that resembled Michael Jackson's face (kind of sort of barely) right after Jackson's death, and also given everything that had just happened with Steve in DC, the stations would be likely to run anything Steve-related.
> 
> Libraries and other public buildings are often frequented by the homeless or mentally ill, so Winter with his arm concealed walking around like a robot trying to imitate a person wouldn't be an interesting sight, I don't think.
> 
> He's going to have actual human interaction in the next chapter, for anyone who's been missing that.
> 
> For anyone on a phone or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> призрак = ghost


	21. Chapter 21

The Soldier dreams.

In the dream he is on the helicarrier and the mission is pinned beneath him. His hand, his right hand, is raining blows upon the man and every time his fist connects, blood flows like the river beneath them. It drenches their bodies and stains the glass around them such a vivid red that it hurts the Soldier's eyes. With each strike the mission's face becomes muddled, indistinct, as if he exists as a drawing on paper and the Soldier's fist is smudging the lead. The Soldier thinks that this mission knew how to draw, as if that information would have been included in the dossier. The Soldier thinks he is fracturing the man's skull and the mission won't retain the cognitive functioning to hold a pencil after this.

The Soldier's knuckles split, and instead of blood there are flashes of silver beneath the skin.

The man screams a word every time he's struck, something that the Soldier doesn't understand. It isn't Russian and the broken jaw isn't making the speech any clearer.

It is only when the mission shatters into fragments of blood and bone that the Soldier is able to look at the components and realize the whole. _Steve._ It is only when he's struggling to piece the shards back together, watching wide-eyed as they disintegrate at his touch while his own skin sloughs off his arm, exposing metal below, that he recognizes the word.

_Bucky._

The glass gives way beneath him and he is in the water, and his body is steel and wiring and it is dragging him down. He is sinking, the water cold but not cold enough to numb, not like ice, and there is a something above him, blocking out the sunlight, nearly on top of him before he recognizes it as a body. It isn't until he makes out the smile that he recognizes Steve.

Steve grabs hold of his arm, watches the metal reflecting what little light is drifting down to them, and the smile fades. The Soldier braces himself to be released, left to drown, but Steve is still pulling him up until he is on the shore, gasping for air. "I'm sorry," he says, even though Steve is here and no longer broken to pieces. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"I know." Steve is smiling, but the Soldier thinks the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry too."

"Why?" It is not the Soldier's place to ask questions, but he can't help himself. He is backhanded for speaking out of turn and he can feel metal beneath when his lip splits.

"Because I wanted you to be Bucky." Steve sighs, shakes his head. The Soldier thinks the look on his face is called disappointment, and it is the most painful thing in the world. "I wanted you to be a person, but you can't, can you? I should have known."

"Are you going to kill me?" the Soldier asks. It's inevitable. He cannot be what is required. He is broken.

He isn't hit this time. Instead Steve takes his hand and pulls him to his feet. They aren't on a shore now, but in a room. The Soldier doesn't know the room, but at its center is a chair, and the chair he knows well. "I won't kill you," Steve says as he leads him to it. "I can't kill you. Weapons aren't really alive. And you're my weapon now. That makes you happy, doesn't it? As close to happy as you can get?"

"Please," says the Soldier, but he is already lying back and no one listens when a weapon begs. Steve is gone and the metal is closing around his head, and he tells himself that this is for Steve, that he can be brave and not scream and allow himself to be repaired without struggle, but the shocks begin and he can't keep from crying out.

When the Soldier wakes he is still screaming, flailing to escape restraints that are no longer there. He has not dreamed in seventy years and he has nothing but the faintest memory of the concept, and everything that preceded now felt too real for him to question. He is not accustoming to questioning. He can feel the electricity coursing through his mind, the sting in his chest that accompanies Steve's disappointment, the cold and wet of the ocean. He collapses against the floor, panting, nerveless, and as his heart rate slows the sensations begin to fade.

Save for one.

The Soldier sits up to verify that the pants on his body are, in actuality, wet. He knows that there exists a phenomenon in the world called hallucinations and he is willing to say that everything he just experienced falls under that category because that would be better than the alternative, but from the thighs down he is drenched. He stares, confused, and notes that the pressure he had been feeling in his abdomen has dissipated.

There is a moment of what the English voice believes may be called panic as the Soldier thinks he may have torn something internal.

It withers as suddenly as it blossoms when he _remembers._

It is not a flash of words or images. It is not a sudden knowing of a single detail in an overall blurry picture. It is a memory, as if he is there again.

He remembers lying in the chair, boneless, sore and collapsed. The shocks made the body contract, rigid and trembling, and when they were through, things became limp like a newly dead corpse. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but ache as motor control slowly returned to him, and as he lay there he became aware of being wet.

When he managed to sit up, he was sitting in the fluid that normally exited his body via the tubes. Every part of him had gone slack once the sparks were done firing in his head, and he imagined that is when this happened. The Soldier blinked, staring down. The doctors assisted him out of the chair, and he was dragged to running water, given a change of clothing.

The Soldier presently has no running water or new clothing. But this is…normal? Not normal, but his body is not irreparably damaged, it seems. When he drinks, that which is not used comes back out. There is a sensation that precedes that release. He can likely track that sensation and prevent this experience from repeating.

And he can _remember_ things, fully remember them. For the first time since he left Steve on the shore of the Potomac, the Soldier feels that maybe it is possible for him to find James Buchanan Barnes after all.

He strips from the waist down and pours some of the water bottle's contents onto the clothing, then onto his legs. His mind returns to beating Steve to a pulp on the helicarrier, drowning, being led to the chair by Steve. It strikes him as unlikely that any of that transpired, because the skin is still on his right hand and he can feel that there is no metal beneath it. He thinks he was unconscious. Is that what happens when he becomes unconscious without HYDRA's injections? He would prefer it to never happen again.

The fabric is dry by the night and the Soldier dresses, hides his hair beneath the hat, prepares to leave.

It strikes him that he never found Steve's apartment.

The night that he sought it out was the night he discovered that his body ran on water, the night that Steve found him. He had become distracted, first preoccupied with saving his life, then trying to locate where Steve had gone and determine whether or not he was being pursued. Steve's apartment had been forgotten. And Steve's apartment still stands, unlike James Buchanan Barnes's complex. He read online that it had been preserved as a site of historical interest.

After the graveyard, the apartment may be guarded, but guards have never prevented him from succeeding, he thinks. And now that he knows he can remember, it seems necessary to make this final stop before exiting Brooklyn. So he heads that way, the directions easy to follow now that he is not dying of thirst. His stomach aches and he is mildly dizzy, but this is the closest to full capacity he has felt since before his shoulder was dislocated.

He is lingering some hundreds of yards away from the building, taking in the entry points, when he hears the voice. "Hey, Bucky."

The Soldier turns his head and finds Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a story that is literally compromised of my writing torturing Bucky each and every chapter, I think that for me personally, the saddest thing I've ever written is that the first memory Bucky regains in full is "the time HYDRA zapped my brain so much I wet my pants." (Which, come to think of it, would not have been a rare occurrence because that's what the body does when you put a current through it.) Mostly because regaining it actually serves as an optimistic moment for him. I debated just skipping this biological function entirely, but given that I'd covered drinking, crying, sleeping, eventually eating, etc., I figured the 1) it made no sense to avoid it and 2) might as well get it out of the way before Winter remembers the concept of shame.


	22. Chapter 22

" _Ты был меньше,_ " the Soldier says, because Steve no longer looks as if he'd only reach the Soldier's shoulder if the two stood side by side. His stature is now as it was when he wore the red, white, and blue uniform, but he isn't in the uniform. And his stomach isn't stained from a gunshot. He has no shield. The Soldier hasn't seen the clothes he is now wearing before.

Steve looks confused for a moment and the Soldier wonders if he understands Russian. Hadn't he spoken it the other night? He doesn't remember Wikipedia mentioning Steve's fluencies. He can't remember Steve's dossier at all.

But then Steve is speaking. "Yeah. Uh, _да,_ I was. Do you remember?" There are perhaps twenty feet between them, and Steve does not move to close that space. He looks cautious and surprised and other emotions the Soldier does not recognize.

The Soldier thinks he should scan the location for others lying in wait, thinks Steve is too intelligent to travel alone. But he can't take his gaze away from the man. The mission. "Yes," he says, because he remembers the night with the water. "No," because he can't remember any of the life that Barnes had shared with Steve. " _Я не знаю._ "

"Okay." Steve speaks softly and the Soldier finally manages to pull his eyes away, scrutinize their surroundings. "I can tell you," he says, and there is something in his voice that makes the Soldier think it will hurt to meet his eyes again, so he doesn't. "I can tell you anything you want to know, Buck."

"You couldn't tell me my name." The Soldier remembers that, isolated, lacking any context. He needed a name, he'd asked for one, and Steve had not been able to provide it. Steve hadn't been a friend then, but hadn't been a mission or a handler either. What else is there?

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," Steve says, and the Soldier looks back at him. His body has recovered from the injuries on the helicarrier, but there is fragility below the exterior. He is carrying some sort of pain and doing a poor job of concealing it. "You're my best friend."

"But you couldn't tell me," the Soldier insists.

Steve pauses and then begins stammering apologies for things that make no sense. He says he is sorry for not finding Bucky, for not realizing he had survived the fall. For letting HYDRA get their hands on him. He speaks as though the misinformation regarding Barnes's death from the Smithsonian and the Internet is true. The Soldier's eyes narrow and it occurs to him that the mission may be lying.

[ _Steve never lies_ ]

But if he is not lying, it means the Soldier's mind is malfunctioning as well as his body. It means he is growing unstable and erratic and maybe he should seek out HYDRA again, allow himself to be strapped down and repaired. Now that he knows what it is to want, he knows he has never wanted anything less than that in the world, but if he is malfunctioning he is a threat to Steve. He does not speak and Steve falls silent, and the quiet seems to stretch the space between them.

"I saw about the cemetery on the news," Steve says after a minute slips by. "Figured that was you."

"It was wrong." From the date of death to the epitaph proclaiming Barnes as a great hero and loyal friend, all of it was wrong. He is not sorry. He doesn't know why he even thinks about being sorry; weapons do not feel remorse.

[ _I'm not a weapon_ ]

He _has_ to be one now, has to defend himself. The experience he thinks was called a dream is still fresh in his mind and the dislocated shoulder isn't a distant memory either. All the life he can remember is that of a weapon and the part of his mind that shouts "mission" when it looks at Steve is not quiet. Nor is the part that remembers Steve's arm wrapped around his throat and internally recoils each time their eyes meet.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asks.

He doesn't know that word. "Where are your allies?" He remembers the man with the wings and the red-haired woman. He has read about the invasion of New York and knows there are others.

Steve raises his hands as if to display a lack of weapons. The Soldier faintly remembers this gesture from missions trying to negotiate before he shot them. "Sam—you…you met him on the helicarrier—he's getting a hotel room. I didn't wanna crowd you."

"That's stupid," is all the Soldier can think to say. It must be a lie, even if it's from Steve. He is meant to be a captain and a tactical expert, but he engages an assassin with a near flawless success record without support? Near flawless. It could still be flawless if the mission continues to be so reckless.

"That's what Sam said. Well, he said "man, have you lost your goddamn mind," but close enough, right?" Steve is smiling for the first time since he's drawn the Soldier's attention. The Soldier thinks he used to be able to read the meanings of all the different smiles, but his mind is blank when he tries to recall this one.

It is exhausting, trying to interpret what the man is saying with both voice and body. The Soldier doesn't want to be exhausted, doesn't want to slip back into unconsciousness ever again. "I shot you," he says, a strange—sulky?—note in his tone, fatigue and urge to take out his knife rising. It isn't enough that Steve has to trigger memories and emotion and conflict. He also has to heal at an accelerated pace so he can appear at the least convenient of times. Though the Soldier is not sure there would ever be a convenient time for this.

The smile is gone from Steve's face and the Soldier almost feels contentment at that. "I'm okay," he says, moving to step forward before he catches himself. "It's not your fault, Bucky, you weren't—"

"You—" he hesitates, searching for the English word and coming up empty. "You _вывихнул_ my shoulder."

The man's eyes go wide and worried, falling to the Soldier's right arm as though he thinks the injury may remain untreated even now. As if the Soldier would be so incompetent. "I'm sorry," he says. "I never wanted—I didn't mean to—"

"You had your mission and I had mine." And Steve had succeeded where the Soldier had failed. Steve slept in ice and woke as a heroic leader. The Soldier roused as a tool. They are both of them changed, no longer the children he saw in picture frames at the Smithsonian, but Steve has retained his humanity and the Soldier can find only darkness and programming within himself. They are binaries. He thinks that if they are near each other long enough, one of them will fall to pieces, and he thinks Steve isn't capable of crumbling.

Though the look in Steve's eyes suggests otherwise. "Bucky, you're free now." His voice is ragged, insistent. "HYDRA will never have you again. I won't let them. You—you don't _have_ to see the world in missions anymore. You're free."

He's had several days of freedom now, each full of confusion or hurt or both. If HYDRA had not ordered him to kill Steve—and he could kill him now and Steve may not even struggle and oh how he wants to but he _can't_ —he would say they were right about freedom.

"Come with me," Steve pleads. He has extended his hand as though that can bridge the space between them, and the Soldier wants to rush at him, close the distance, allow himself to be led, ordered, sheltered.

And he wants to crush Steve's throat beneath his fingers.

He remains frozen. His body is intact but he can feel it coming apart. "I can't."

"Bucky." Whenever Steve says it he may as well be pulling a new limb from the socket. "Can I walk over to you? I won't touch you. Please, Bucky?"

The Soldier says "Yes," because he doesn't dare say no when Steve is not shot and bloodied and the world is not going to pieces around them.

Steve approaches slowly, as if assessing an injured animal, and the Soldier tries not to flinch with each step. There is a shake to Steve's hands and the Soldier thinks the mission wants to touch as badly as the Soldier wants to flee.

"I can help you." Steve's voice is light and soft and the Soldier can almost feel it caress him. "You don't have to be alone. The things they've done to you—I can help. We can help you. I have friends. Engineers, doctors—"

His hand lashes out and steel fingers close upon Steve's throat without squeezing. He hears the word _doctors_ and the Soldier is back in that chair, restrained and screaming. It is only Steve's lack of response that keeps the hand from crushing. "You're my mission," the Soldier whispers, and the clarity that phrase once provided is gone, the nerve beneath exposed and raw.

"You didn't kill me in DC, Buck." Steve's tone hasn't changed. There is no worry in his face. He was always so sure. "You had clear shots and you didn't aim to kill."

"I'm not Bucky," the Soldier hisses through clenched teeth, and his hand tightens slightly around the man's larynx before Steve can protest. "I can't remember. I don't _want_ to. Leave me alone."

Steve doesn't have to speak to make it clear that he isn't going to leave.

"You're my mission." His eyes are leaking again. The English voice is screaming and his hand won't tighten and crush the trachea beneath it. He cannot kill Steve and he can't let go because Steve will never leave him be if he does. He can't be Bucky, can't be James Buchanan Barnes, can't remember. He is a weapon and a danger and everything is falling to pieces and the Soldier is on the verge of collapse when the solution becomes suddenly clear.

The left hand stays in place, steadying. His right hand also goes to Steve's neck, searching. He finds the carotid artery and presses, cutting off the blood flow to the brain. Steve struggles, but he seems unwilling to strike Barnes's body again and the lack of oxygen and blood to his head are quickly rendering him unconscious.

"Don't follow me."

When Steve goes limp, the Soldier lowers his body to the pavement. He runs. Steve will be unconscious for thirty seconds at most, maybe less, but thirty seconds is all a _призрак_ needs to vanish.

His eyes do not stop leaking as he moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those reading this on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Ты был меньше = You were shorter
> 
> да = yes
> 
> Я не знаю = I don't know
> 
> вывихнул = dislocated
> 
> призрак = ghost


	23. Chapter 23

He considers either flagging another vehicle down or stealing one. The Soldier can probably operate a car; he has no memory of doing so, but it seems a skill set that would have been worth programming into him. Transport would cover more ground more quickly, help him continue to evade pursuit. But if he were to steal a car, a report would be filed and the authorities would be looking for it. And if he travels as a passenger, in this current state, the Soldier thinks he may kill someone.

He's deciding that he doesn't like—never liked—killing people, even more so without orders.

The Soldier is wandering and aimless. His eyes have not stopped spilling liquid and he is hyperventilating. Each step is a struggle, his energies divided between wanting to put as much space between himself and Steve as he can and wanting to run back. He isn't sure which part of him wants what. He's finding it difficult to focus on either line of thought long enough to distinguish between them. His heart won't stop hammering and he wonders almost idly if this latest stress will cause it to fail.

It is not heart failure, but abrupt retching, that pulls him out of the fog.

There is nothing in his stomach save for water and acid, but that doesn't prevent the convulsive push that forces them out and puts the Soldier on his knees. The glove of his left hand wipes at his mouth as he struggles to steady his breathing. He has to get back up, keep moving. Every second wasted without movement is another opportunity to be caught.

 _Enough,_ the Soldier thinks, and he finds that there is a clarity that comes with total desperation, similar to the way staring through the scope of a gun and focusing on the target mutes any screaming and chaos from bystanders.

He stands, exhales.

_I am broken._

His heart tries to race again—a broken machine should be melted for scrap—but he swallows it back. The Soldier cannot function when driven by emotions. But he understands facts, and that facts are that something within him is broken and in need of repair. The symptoms of the damage are fatigue, water from the eyes, shallow breath, heart palpitations, stomach pains, vertigo, emotional duress, vomiting, and, judging from the vast difference in temperature between his skin and the metal arm, a much larger disparity than is typical, _лихорадка_.

It is almost quieting to see it laid out so clinically, the way the doctors used to list his injuries before setting about to fix the problems his body couldn't handle on its own.

The Soldier can ascertain no reason why his body cannot handle these damages without aid. Surely he has recovered from worse. The only thing his body cannot self-maintain is the metal arm, and there is no harm to it. The limb feels heavy now, but all of his body feels heavy. He must be missing a component that he needs to properly function. Something in the tubes and needles other than water was fueling him, and now he has lost that.

So what options are there? He can return to HYDRA for maintenance or try to steal the required additives from his last rendezvous point, assuming it is still there. He can accept Steve's offer of aid and likely become either a weapon for Steve's government or a prisoner. He can seek out some other interested party, of which there must be no lack, and become their asset in exchange for repairs. He can simply wait and see if his body is able to adjust and heal in these new circumstances. Or he can die, which may be the case if he continues in his current state.

He can see the choices laid out before him like a list, can see the slashes of ink through the unworkable options.

He will not return to HYDRA. He does not want to and with everything he is experiencing, he has ceased to care whether or not he is meant to want. He will allow himself to die before he willingly returns to that chair.

Infiltrating HYDRA is similarly unworkable. Even in his current state, the Soldier believes himself capable of forcing his way into the bank vault successfully. It is not the force that causes him hesitation. But he could hardly listen to Steve without collapsing and swearing allegiance, and he has not spent the past seventy years with Steve as his sole provider and handler. If he returns to that room with that chair and they speak to him, he cannot swear that he will not be persuaded.

Steve. This is the option that makes the English voice start, makes the Soldier's teeth press into his lips until he tastes copper. He _wants_ to go with Steve, yes. He has never wanted anything more. He wants to be whatever Steve requires of him, be it James Buchanan Barnes or a weapon, and just thinking of Steve nearly drives him to turn around and seek the man back out.

But wanting and being are separate things. He cannot be James Buchanan Barnes. Even the part of him that knows English cannot argue that point. There is a sense of recognition when he thinks of Barnes, a feeling of "I am, I should be," but it is something he can only brush against, not grasp. The faint and few memories of Barnes's life that he retains, thin and fragmented like loose strands of spider web, do not give him hope of regaining more. They only throw the lack of the rest into sharp relief.

The Soldier cannot be what Steve requires, and so he would only serve as a disappointment. From the way Steve looks at him, he thinks it would kill Steve to have the Soldier there as a constant reminder of what he has lost. He thinks that killing Steve is a mission that would kill him as well, pull him apart from the inside and out. He could possibly pretend to be Barnes, study the man until he can act as though they are the same person, but that would be lying. He does not believe himself capable of lying to Steve.

He could be Steve's weapon. He could defend him and keep him safe. He could be another's weapon if serving for Steve still proved too painful.

But he doesn't _want_ it. He can't classify himself as a person. He doesn't know what it is to be human, but whatever it is, he cannot feel it. Yet the Soldier is awake now, aware of whatever state of being he finds himself in, and he doesn't want to return to the haze of orders and corpses. No matter what comfort it would provide, and he knows it would numb the pain. Living hurts, but it is a hurt he can't bring himself to carry on without. There is no logic to it, but it is true.

So his options are to wait or to die.

The thought does not rouse any sense of self-preservation within him. He cannot say he wants to die, but he is so very _сонный_ , and to rest without dreams would not be horrible. He may live. If his body does not cease to function, he can continue, work out a plan for the future without the malfunctions. If he does not die. It comes down to the waiting.

The part of him that is an asset does not know what to do with the waiting time.

 _I want to be_ , is the only suggestion that the other part can offer, now that he has stopped listening to the desire to return to Steve. _I can be a person again, I want to_ be _._

He does not know how to be a person. The Soldier's mind returns to the Smithsonian, the film footage. Barnes's face, glowing. Laughing. Living.

He can't be James Buchanan Barnes. But perhaps he can learn to live from him, rather than learn to be him.

The Soldier walks back to DC. He is not pursued. It is a three day journey made without incident, even when he must pause to retrieve water, and by the time he has arrived, the pain in his stomach has ceased and the _лихорадка_ has broken. He thinks that means he may live, and he remains cautiously optimistic until the end of his first day back in the capitol.

At the end of that day, his left arm ceases to function.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. I know I'm saying this right after a chapter of Winter basically deciding "eh, maybe death would be pleasant," but I promise things are about to start looking up for him, within a chapter or two. Because even I have limits to just how much torture I can put a character through.
> 
> The fever, dizziness, and vomiting are symptoms of drug withdrawal. The first few days a body is deprived of food, there is pain and hunger, but after that, the body starts to become numb to the starvation for a period of time. Not that it feels good, or even okay, but not tortuously hungry anymore, either.
> 
> For those reading this on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> лихорадка = fever
> 
> сонный = sleepy


	24. Chapter 24

He is flipping the knife when his arm fails.

It is night. The knife is in his hands because the motion keeps him from sleeping. He has tried not to sleep since the time he dreamed, but his body is refusing to cooperate on that front. It keeps slipping back into unconsciousness before he can catch it. This happened mid-step on the way back to DC. He'd woken up maybe minutes or maybe hours later, face scraped from the collision with the ground. The Soldier has the sense that sleep is at least as vital to his body as water, but water doesn't cause dreams.

In one instant his hand is whirring, tilting at the wrist, and in the next the entire limb goes slack. The other hand catches the knife on instinct, but by the blade rather than the handle because he couldn't properly execute the toss. It opens a gash along his palm, blood leaking out of the wound. The pain, while not the worst he's felt in recent memory, is sharp and unexpected and fully wakes him up.

He files the sensation away as a potential future motivator and sits up straight, examining the opposite arm.

The Soldier is in an alley, because while his body has ceased to hurt so badly, it is still weak. Intimidating the homeless squatters out of an alley relatively near the Smithsonian with his knife is easier than locating and casing an empty building. Also, he thinks he likes the unobstructed view of the sky.

Under the sleeves of the jacket and shirt, his arm is still cool to the touch. It has not overheated. That is the second thing he notes upon touching it with the opposite hand. The first thing he notices is that his left arm perceives neither the touch nor the fabric.

The left arm feels nothing at all.

Staring, head tilting slightly to the side, the Soldier taps the arm, then takes the wrist and shakes it a little, as though that can jostle it back into functioning.

Up to this moment, he had been able to classify the day as a success. Yes, it had been full of aching, exhaustion, and clothing that attempted to slide off his body in a way in hadn't earlier in the week, but he had smiled for possibly the first time in his life as a Soldier.

It had happened in the Smithsonian. He had returned there that morning and observed until the exhibit was closing. The Captain America mannequin was still missing from the display, and the Soldier's mind drifted to the uniform he put several bullets through. It couldn't be the same one, could it? Even if it was, he wasn't sure he felt guilty. Steve was with him until the end of the line. Captain America

[ _Капитан Америка мёртв и враг_ ]

was a title, a symbol. He'd never needed a symbol, only a directive.

He'd spend hours watching the footage of Barnes. Motionless, eyes locked on screen. He was no longer so interested in the locations of the segments, the where and the why and straining for memories. But the five seconds of footage of Barnes laughing, that had him rapt. There was no audio accompaniment, and he couldn't read lips—not in English—well enough to tell what was said. He couldn't remember. But eventually he stopped struggling to, allowed himself to let the moment wash over him again and again.

And then he smiled.

It wasn't a memory. He wasn't imitating the footage, hadn't planned to respond at all. But Steve was grinning and Barnes was laughing and suddenly, there was a small, hesitant smile on the Soldier's face. He found that everything ached slightly less when he was smiling.

He is not smiling now, struggling to pull the jacket and shirt away from a shoulder that is completely unresponsive.

There is no damage to the external plating of the limb. There isn't even a scratch in the paint that forms the star. The plates can retract and his mind wills the motion, but his arm does not respond. The Soldier's other hand, still dripping red, reaches over. His fingernails slide below one of the plates easily. He thinks his nails have grown the way the hair on his face has. When he gently lifts the plate up, he angles his hand so as not to leak blood into the interior circuitry. Nothing looks broken. He lowers the plate, repeats the process with another. And another. Some he cannot check, because the arm will not hold itself up and he can't force it into a visible angle and lift the plating at the same time, but in what he can see, there is no damaged part or foreign body. It has simply shut down.

Does HYDRA have a kill switch? Why activate it a week after he disappeared? Perhaps they have tracked him and they want to take him back in, but he sees no reason why they wouldn't tranquilize him from a distance if that is their goal. He can't use the left arm while he is unconscious, and he can still fight without it.

He likely will not fight well in his current state, but he can put up a struggle.

Retrieving the knife, he listens for any ambush or approach, evaluating what moves he can execute with the left arm disabled and what compensations he will have to make in both attack and defense. He pulls the shirt and jacket back over himself. Neither will stop blades or bullets, but there is at least some protection offered by the layers. The Soldier waits.

His body attempts to lapse back into unconsciousness, and he drives the point of the blade into his leg. Not deeply. Not near anything vital. The Soldier knows how to inflict pain without causing debilitating injury. He jolts, awake again.

This process repeats twice more over an hour or so before the Soldier remembers that infections exist and the knife is not exactly sterile. He is not sure that his body can currently overcome gangrene and he would prefer not to lose a leg, so he slips the knife back into its sheath and waits with the functioning hand on the handle.

When he sleeps he dreams of ice. He tries to pull himself out of the ice and metal breaks away each time his hand moves.

He wakes up shivering. His left arm is no longer cool, matching the temperature of the air around him. Out of everything wrong with his body at the moment, this is the most troublesome. Currently, every part of the arm that he can observe is salvageable. If it overheats, that may no longer be the case.

The Soldier considers his options and decides that, even if his limbs are going to begin failing one by one, he would prefer not to wait around for that to happen. The smiling from the day prior, he would prefer that. A long stretch of time passes before he is able to maneuver the nonfunctioning hand into the pocket of the jacket to adequately conceal it—he has never realized how heavy the arm is when it is immobile, because it has never been immobile—but time doesn't much matter when there are no deadlines for success or mission reports to be delivered.

He is nearly inside the Smithsonian when he hears the voice.

"You look like hell, Bucky."

He doesn't know the voice. But the name stops him and he turns. With Steve, recognition was instantaneous. Here, it takes a moment to realize this is the man with the wings. He doesn't have the wings now.

The Soldier still doesn't understand what "hell" means, or if "hell" is different from "the hell."

"You were in Brooklyn," he says, because he thinks the man with the wings is the one Steve said he met on the helicarrier. No one else comes to mind.

"Yeah, we were." He tilted his head toward the security cameras. "Until we picked you up on those."

The Soldier realizes that the concentrated effort he made during his first visit to conceal his face from every camera had been forgotten the second time around. He can see what little life he likely has left stretched out before him, and it consists of running back and forth away from capture and detection. He thinks that is a game, but he doesn't recall the name and has no interest in playing.

"Walk with me, would you?" the man who had the wings asks. "Just to talk."

This one, he thinks, would not approach him without backup. This one is armed. This is potentially an ambush. He can run. He can disable the threat and disappear. But he is also tired. If he runs, they will pursue him again. Perhaps he can convince this one to stop. He cannot convince Steve, but if Steve's aid falls through, maybe he will eventually terminate the pursuit.

And the Soldier is in need of repair. It seems he has some programmed directive to seek out maintenance, because he is moving toward the man who had the wings before consciously deciding to do so. "I don't know how far I can walk." It is an idiotic thing to admit, but better to clue a potential threat into a weakness and have them possibly overestimate it than to ignore it and collapse in front of said threat.

"All right." If that information changed the man's strategy at all, it does not show on his features. "Then how do you feel about pizza?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal headcanon is that Bucky's arm runs off of his caloric intake, which probably makes no sense scientifically, but hey, according to the Winter Soldier art book detailing the movie production, his arm is supposed to be more advanced than Stark Industries technology, so let's just assume it can be done in universe. It struck me as the most efficient way to maintain its power and the least troublesome for HYDRA to deal with (It's probably easier to throw a Snickers at the Soldier during a mission or shoot glucose into him than it is to open the arm and swap out batteries or charge him or anything).
> 
> And now I'm imagining a "have a Snickers" commercial with Bucky Barnes and I just need to stop.
> 
> Point being, my theory is that once the Soldier's body slips to a certain point in starvation mode, there's not enough readily available to power the arm without cannibalizing the body's own muscle and fat tissue, which would happen at too slow of a rate to provide the constant fuel needed to function, so the arm just stops. I also imagine it takes a hell of a lot to power that arm, so it would likely shut down a while before the rest of him.
> 
> For anyone reading this on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Капитан Америка мёртв и враг = Captain America is dead and the enemy


	25. Chapter 25

The Winter Soldier recalls setting a man on fire.

He cannot remember the details of the mission. The location, the name and face of the man he burned, whether he had doused the target in gasoline or kerosene beforehand—those facts are hazy as the smoke that rose from the body. But he remembers the effects of the fire on flesh, the almost glistening sheen the skin took as it bubbled and warped before blackening.

That is what the surface of pizza makes the Soldier think of.

Feeling revulsion and curiosity but mostly the former, he tears his gaze away from it and back to the glass of water the server had placed in front of him.

"When was the last time you ate?" the man who had wings asks.

It's such a senseless question—obviously the answer is never, what purpose would it serve?—that the Soldier forgets to respond to it, distracted by trying to work out why it was asked. Sometimes interrogations begin with innocuous or unrelated questions to lure the subject into answering readily. But it makes little sense to interrogate him. HYDRA never told him any information beyond what was necessary to fulfill a mission, and most everything has been wiped from his mind. Beyond that, he can only offer detailed information on methods of assassination and the care and handling of various weapons, and somewhat less detailed information on the lives of Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes. When it comes to gathering intelligence, he is less useful than a phone.

"I broke your wings," the Soldier says, testing. He knows without remembering that no one takes powerful assassins into restaurants "just to talk." Likely there will be an abduction attempt to either hand him over to Steve or to the government. But there may be retaliation first, punishment for kicking this man off of the helicarrier and anything that may have preceded that. He is confident in his ability to take a beating and remain upright, but he'd like an estimation of how severe a reprimand to expect.

He can gauge that by the eyes, he thinks, as if it's something his body remembered when his mind was made blank.

The eyes of the man who had wings contain no dark glimmer as he takes a slice of the pizza, folds it in half, and bites. "You did. But we stole those to begin with. Well, Steve and Natasha stole them. I mostly offered moral support, but either way, I don't think that puts me in a position to get too steamed about it."

The Soldier is beginning to think Steve steals a lot of things. He glances around the restaurant for approximately the twenty-seventh time since entering. If this is an ambush, everyone may be a part of it, including the server who brought the water. He hopes she is not a part of it. People don't often give him things and he thinks he would rather not disable the people who do.

"Here." The man who had the wings picks up a paper packet from a stack of them on the table, next to the salt shaker. "Put this in your drink."

It is an order and he does not think to question it until he's already torn the packet open with his teeth—the immobile hand remains concealed in his jacket—and has poured half of the white powder within into the water. "What is it?"

"Sugar."

He can see no tactical advantage the man can gain from providing him with sugar, so he hesitantly sips. It tastes like sugar and the Soldier hadn't realized he knew that taste. It's good, extremely good. His gaze falls to the other sugar packets on the table, and what he feels is not a need as with water, but a desire. A strong one.

The man makes a soft sort of a laugh and nudges the stack toward him. "You can have another."

The Soldier adds a second packet.

"What's your plan, Bucky?"

His hand moves from the glass to rest on the handle of the knife. "This interrogation is—" What is the English word for inept? "Not good."

"Probably 'cause it's not an interrogation." There is openness in the winged man's face that is not unlike looking at Steve. Perhaps that is why Steve allied himself with this one. "Just friendly concern."

It isn't until now, sitting down, that the Soldier is aware of just how weary his body is. When he is walking and must focus on placing one foot before the other, it is easier to dismiss. "I don't have friends."

"You could use some. They tend to give good advice." The man offers another of the sugar packets, which the Soldier takes only because it's possible the desire is his body's way of saying sugar is something needed. "Like, wasting away at the Smithsonian? Not a great plan."

His voice is not cold, not cutting the way some handlers and agents could sound. It's soft, but the Soldier thinks the softest voices sometimes possessed the hands with the harshest slaps.

"I won't be your weapon," the Soldier says. The instinctive flinch that accompanies talking back is small, but it still makes him grit his teeth. "Or your captain's."

"Then I'm glad we're on the same page. People aren't weapons. What HYDRA did to you was wrong."

He has not, the Soldier observes, taken another bite of the pizza. It seems a waste. If its purchase was an attempt to bribe the Soldier or curry his loyalty through gifts, even more so. "I won't be Bucky Barnes, either. He…" The words are missing. How does he say _I want to be him more than anything but I can't and what if I try and fail and then what's left and I hate him he failed Steve but he's Steve's friend and I want to be that too_? That would be more than he's ever said in his life and his voice would likely give out. "He's dead."

"Who says you have to be?"

His body is broken but that doesn't impact his speed, and a shaking hand closes around the man's collar, pulling him halfway across the table as the Soldier snarls. "I'm—" He doesn't know how to say amnesiac. "I can't remember things, but I'm not _stupid._ The only reason I'm not dead or locked away is because I look like _him_ and that's the only reason Steve wants me back." He shoves as he lets go, pushing the man back against the far seat of the booth. The metal hand has slid out of his pocket and dangles limply at his side.

The Soldier can feel eyes on them. He had not planned to do that and his face goes hot at the realization, then cold. He's been a weapon for so long that he reacts as one without thinking. Smiling in the Smithsonian feels so far away now.

"Hey." The man's voice is softer than the Soldier expected. "Forget Steve."

He can't.

"What do _you_ want? It's your life, it's about damn time you had a say in it."

More than anything, he wants to sleep. Just collapse with his head on the table, possibly forever. Maybe there will be no dreams, or maybe the world will be smaller and simpler when he wakes up. "I want to be a person," the Soldier says, but he can't raise his eyes from the floor as he does.

He can, however, lift his head when the man says "You haven't done too bad a job of that so far." The Soldier looks for the dark in the man's eyes, the laugh, but his face is still all openness. "No, really. You realized your orders were wrong, so you acted against them. You chose not to go back to HYDRA. And you decided what you wanted. Those are all very human things, you know that?"

The Soldier did not know that. There is heaviness in his throat that the water does not cure.

"But you're also a complete mess, no offense. You could use a friend. Hell, you could use a dozen."

"There aren't a dozen people who would take up such a doomed cause," the Soldier says.

"Really?" The man who had wings indicates himself. "There's one down. Bet we can find eleven more."

Shaking his head, the Soldier pushes himself back against the booth, gaze averted again. If he says yes, then he's trading HYDRA for a new handler. They will want to make him Barnes rather than an asset, but the end result is the same. And worse, he will have to act human for his masters. He can be a tool. To be whole and alive is something he doubts he will learn to fake convincingly.

"Bucky." This man doesn't say it with Steve's familiarity and that helps. "You've been on your own for decades. You've earned a break, all right? It's not wrong or shameful to accept help."

"I can't be him," the Soldier whispers, eyes shut.

"You won't have to be. And anyone who says otherwise can answer to me, all right? If they keep at it, I'll demonstrate that chest-kick-off-a-building move of yours."

The Soldier's mouth twitches. Barnes might have liked this man.

"What do you say?"

He can't say. He can barely nod. The little movement of his head takes everything he has and he ends up slumped over the table, nerveless.

"Good. Now what do you say we get you to a shower?"

"My legs are not functioning," the Soldier says, realizing that he is seconds from unconsciousness and also that his hand won't grasp the knife to do anything about it.

The man who had wings curses and comes around to his side of the table. "Here, get your arm over my shoulder."

"My arm is also not functioning."

"Are you shitting me?"

The Soldier opens his mouth to say he doesn't know the meaning of "shitting" but he yawns instead. He can feel the world tilt around him as he's dragged by the broken arm out of the booth, his torso draped across the man's shoulders. He hears the man ask why super soldiers are all so damn heavy, and then he is unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to ruin pizza for everyone forever in three easy steps:
> 
> 1\. Decide to listen to music that tangentially reminds you of Bucky as you write.
> 
> 2\. Select Throbbing Gristle's Hamburger Lady.
> 
> 3\. Write depictions of food while listening to it.
> 
> Hamburger Lady, before you can traumatize yourself looking it up, is an industrial song about a burn victim based on a fictional letter about a burn victim, and is generally considered highly disturbing by most listeners. It really has nothing to do with the Winter Soldier at all, but it's linked in my head because it's a song about unending pain and isolation and the cruelty of keeping someone alive in that state.
> 
> Anyway, no pizza for Winter because there's no way his stomach can handle pizza right now and I didn't feel like making him sick on top of everything else.
> 
> There's no medical reason for the sugar in water bit, beyond that sugar is calories and his body is in desperate need of calories.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently Google has lied to me and sugar water actually does have medicinal use. The more you know.

When he wakes up the world is white.

The Soldier's mind goes to snow and ice and the only thing that keeps him from screaming is the onset of shrill bursts of sound to his left. He tilts his head and the white becomes a ceiling rather than a snow storm. Eyes reaching the point where the ceiling meets the wall, his gaze carries on downward and lands on the machine producing the noise. It's a heart rate monitor, though he can't say why he knows the name. The sounds slow as he stares at it, leveling out as he realizes the beat is his own.

It takes a moment to grasp he is lying on a bed, because he has no memory of ever being in one before. The mattress below him is so soft it feels as if it could give way at any time. The clothes on his body are not the ones he was wearing when he fell asleep; they are dark and very, very soft, and the sleeves are short. There is an IV port in his right arm connected to two lines that lead up to bags of clear fluid hanging from a stand beside the bed. A wire snakes from between the buttons on the shirt that is not his, leading to the heart rate monitor. He raises his right hand, brushes it against his face, and the hair that had been growing there is gone.

HYDRA never put him in a bed that he can remember, never gave him clothing that wasn't tactical gear, but beyond that the set-up is identical to the moments of respite between missions or the time between the tank and being sent out.

So the man who had wings lied and he is to be a weapon again. The Soldier cannot lie, but he finds no surprise in the thought that others mislead him. That he will be made back into an asset seems more of a foregone conclusion than a trick. It almost doesn't hurt to realize it.

The door opens and the man who had wings is there. "Hey, Bucky. How're you feeling?"

"Functional." Any answer beyond that is irrelevant. He doubts a verbal response is necessary at all—the man must have hooked him up to these things, surely he knows how the Soldier feels—but they'll punish if he doesn't acknowledge them. He remembers that. Sitting up, he gathers the resolve to question at least where they are, but the look on the man's face delays him.

"Thought your arm wasn't working?"

Both hands are braced against the mattress, arms supporting him as he fully sits. The Soldier lifts the metal hand with a curious stare, flexes the fingers. The wrist and elbow bend and the shoulder rotates. When he brushes the metal fingers against his face, they are cold. "It wasn't." Something in the tubes powers it, then. He wants to ask what is in them, but why would he be allowed to know how to sustain himself?

Instead, he asks, "Where am I?"

"New York." He must see something in the Soldier's face, because he adds, "Not Brooklyn, okay? This is Manhattan. And it was either this or take you to a hospital, and hospitals are a little less forgiving about the whole 'fugitive from justice' thing."

The Soldier hadn't realized he was a fugitive from justice. He supposes that's to be expected when one opens fire on a populated bridge, but it isn't something he's ever had to worry about. "Why Manhattan?"

The door is opening as he speaks and an almost familiar man with dark hair is entering, pulling a utility cart behind him. There are tools and tablets and things the Soldier does not recognize on its surface. "Because I don't make house calls, and we're all better off if I perform repairs instead of creepy government suits. Plus, how many other recovery rooms are you gonna find with Cerruti sheets?"

"Bucky, this is Tony Stark," the man who had wings says, and while the name sparks something, the Soldier can't place it.

Tony Stark comes to a stop by the side of the bed, watching as the metal limb lowers until the hand is resting in the Soldier's lap. "Sam said your arm wasn't working." He sounds disappointed, as if a weapon with a broken arm is somehow favorable.

"It wasn't," the man who had wings—Sam—says. "What, does it charge when you sleep?"

"I can still look at it, right?" Tony Stark asks. "Figure out how it functions? You know, so we can keep it from failing again and make sure there's no tracking chips _and_ I get to check out the cool shiny cybernetic? I mean, I've turned this tower into a bed and breakfast for wayward geriatric super soldiers, free of charge, so really it's—"

"Bucky, is it all right if Tony takes a look at your arm?"

He cannot grasp why they wouldn't have examined it while he was still unconscious. HYDRA always recalibrated it while he was right out of cryo and barely functioning. But HYDRA designed it. Perhaps his new handlers require his feedback to properly maintain it.

"Yes," he says, because Tony Stark said super soldiers, plural, which means Steve is somewhere in this building. And he doesn't want to hurt people Steve might care about, no matter what they plan to do with him.

Tony Stark taps his hand against the tablet before lifting it back up and the screen seems to rise as well, hovering in the air. The Soldier thinks it is called a hologram. Tony Stark places his hand at one corner of the hologram and draws it away slowly, extending the size of the screen. "All right, Anastasia, here's the deal. I can't imagine you're too fond of people poking at you like a big metallic lab rat, and I've definitely not fond being strangled, outside of a very specific set of circumstances and safe words. _So._ You need a minute at any time, tell me. And if you can't speak, just flip me the bird, okay?"

"What bird?"

Tony Stark proceeds to teach him a hand gesture that makes Sam laugh and shake his head at the same time. He then offers something that looks similar to the security wands in airports, only much smaller.

The Soldier hadn't realized up until that thought that he had ever been in an airport.

"This is what I'm gonna use to take a look in your hardware," he explains. "And probably the rest of you, just to make sure there aren't any sub-dermal microchips or anything. That button on the side there activates it. You just wave it over anything you want to creep on—slowly—and it'll show up onscreen."

The Soldier runs the wand across Tony Stark's chest, because it is the nearest thing that is not a pillow or a blanket. When the image appears on the hologram, Stark taps it and things go translucent, displaying fabric layered over skin over insides. He presses his fingers to the screen and spreads them apart, and the hologram splits into screens of each component: fabric, skin, musculature, bones, organs and blood vessels. There is much scar tissue, the Soldier notes, at the center of the man's chest.

"See? Completely painless. Wanna give it a go?"

When Stark scans his arm, he stops the wand at the point where skin meets metal. The Soldier gently lifts his right hand and pushes the scanner higher up. The metal continues under his skin, to the point where the collarbone reaches the sternum. It replaces muscle tissue from the point of the scarring and into his torso and neck. When the scan divides into its components, rather than muscle and bone, one screen displays the plating, and another the hydraulics in the wrist and elbow. There is circuitry beneath the plating, most of it incased in gel that Stark theorizes aloud is meant to absorb shock. The joints of the arm itself contain pockets of the gel, while the fingers are cable-jointed. The frame beneath everything else is not unlike the bones of his opposite arm. On the screen, his glove lights up with all the synthetic nerve endings implanted inside the leather.

Stark is most interested in the point beneath the metal musculature of his shoulder, where the arm connects into nerves and body tissue. He is constantly enlarging and rotating the hologram, muttering under his breath. The Soldier isn't sure what he finds so interesting, but he thinks the man looks happy.

"If I touch it, you won't kill me, right?" Stark asks, and it takes the Soldier a moment to realize he's being addressed. No one ever asks permission to touch his body. When he nods, Stark's fingers skitter over the surface of it, gently lifting the plates and setting them back down. "How much can you feel without the glove?"

"Pressure and temperature. Not much texture." His fingers barely feel at all. The Soldier is not sure if that is intentional or if they are too small for the circuitry.

"Does it have a set temperature range?" Stark's hand runs over the glove, the only part of the arm that is nearly warm.

A shrug. No one had ever given him measurements. "It doesn't reach the rest of the body's temperature. It cannot…" The Soldier pauses, searching for a word. "It cannot…burn the skin with cold?" He is not used to someone touching the glove so lightly—generally it is not touched outside of combat or maintenance—and he feels itching even though that sensation should not be possible. The arm tenses, plates sliding together.

Stark's face lights up at the action and he walks his fingers to the forearm, occasionally asking the Soldier to flex or bend as he examines the technology. "This is beautiful," he says, running his hand over the plating a final time before he steps back. "You know that? No one else's got anything like this."

To be called beautiful, if only in part, twists in the Soldier's stomach and pulls foreign emotions just below the surface of his memories. But it seems sincere. He stares at the arm, the smooth silver metal and the red star. He's never thought of it as beautiful. It's never been anything but his arm.

"So how does it run?" Sam asks.

"Ah, now there's the question." Stark is scrutinizing the screens again. "Well, _a_ question. Other questions include 'why paint a star on it' and 'can he operate a touch screen?' But it's a good question."

"You don't know?"

"I have _theories,_ Top Gun. And much as I hate would-be genocidal totalitarian regimes, HYDRA's got some impressive engineering prowess, I'll give them that. The takeaway here is, it's not going to blow up and it's not going to lead a ninja clan to our doors, so everyone wins." He waves a hand across the screens and they clear. "Especially me. Because I get to poke at the fun new tech more. But first, let's make sure they didn't tag any of the rest of you, okay, Tin Man?"

He doesn't move as the wand runs over him, transfixed by the sight forming on the holographic screens. It isn't that the Soldier hadn't realized what the interior of a body looks like. He has it memorized, knowing just where to shoot and slice to do the most damage in the least amount of time. But to see it in _him_ , to look into his own body and have it match that of a person, is something else entirely.

Stark pauses the wand over his sternum, examining the screen with the bones and mumbling about metal coatings. The Soldier's eyes remained glued to the center screen. The circulatory system. His heart is beating and he can watch as it happens.

Mouth forming a smile, the Soldier leans slightly forward. His arm is just a limb and not especially interesting. This, though, is beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much everything in this chapter regarding the Soldier's arm and what is inside it, especially the idea that the glove improves the sensation of texture, comes from the brilliant therealdeepsix on Tumblr, who has [a very long and intelligent post on what likely makes up the tech of the arm](http://therealdeepsix.tumblr.com/post/83026776750/ive-been-thinking-about-buckys-robot-arm-a-lot). She also shared my thoughts on the arm running off of calories, which is super cool.
> 
> Cerruti sheets – I don't even think they make these anymore. They are the very, very expensive bed sheets best known for being stained with "cranberry juice" in _American Psycho_.
> 
> Once upon a time I had surgery in a university hospital, and the process was explained to me by two very enthusiastic med students who obviously loved their job and wanted me to love it too. It was very "high fives all around! This is going to rock! See this skull? Let's just demonstrate what we're going to do with it! You want to hold the skull? Yeah, just like that! This is gonna be the greatest surgery ever!" Their enthusiasm was pretty contagious, and ever since then I am convinced that is the best possible way to perform medical (or mechanical) attention. It also just struck me as the Tony way of doing things.
> 
> According to the concept artists of _Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ Bucky's arm is supposed to be slightly more advanced than Tony's technology. Which is both amazing and terrifying.


	27. Chapter 27

"Bucky, do you think you can stand up?" Sam asks once Stark has turned off the scanning wand and declared the Soldier's body free of any GPS microchips. He is not sure whether or not it is surprising that HYDRA did not implant a tracker into him. But where else would he ever have gone but back to them?

He glances at the wire and tubes connected to his body, indicates them.

Sam makes a soft "oh" sound, and then he is on the Soldier's right, asking permission to touch him and detach the lines. Stark is doing the same with the wire monitoring his heart, and the Soldier doesn't understand why they keep asking but nods regardless. Stark's hand slips under the collar of the shirt, returning with the wire and electrode, and the heart rate monitor goes silent. They leave the IV port in his arm but disconnect the tubing.

He can stand without assistance, but they help him up anyway. The Soldier cannot decide if they think him incompetent or if they are trying to imprint him onto them to better follow their orders. He doesn't ask where he is being led, trailing after them while Stark is examining the scans on the tablet, theorizing aloud about power sources.

Their end destination is a kitchen, and the Soldier is at a loss as to why. Are orders given in kitchens? He can't remember. The orders for his last mission weren't. But his new handlers don't seem to have much in common with HYDRA, and missions will be fulfilled regardless of how the orders are received. They seat him at the table, and instead of orders or briefing, he faces another question.

"What's your favorite kind of soup?" Sam asks.

There is no part of that question that the Soldier can comprehend. He doesn't have favorites beyond a preferred rifle. And the rifle is only due to its efficiency. He has never had soup. He stares blankly, unable to answer, and awaits a reprimand.

"Need a list?" Tony asks. "There's cans of basically everything under the sun—Pepper doesn't trust my cooking based entirely on one incident, which, I might add, was a high stress situation and pretty ungrateful on her part—but there's anything you could possibly want, from artichoke to zuppa toscana. That's a thing, right, zuppa toscana? I didn't just make that up?"

The Soldier tilts his head and considers making the "bird" gesture from before.

"Bucky?" Sam prompts after a stretch of silence.

"I don't…have a favorite?"

"Okay." He doesn't move within striking distance. "Then you can just take a look at what there is and choose one, okay?"

"Choose one for what?" The Soldier should not have to ask questions, should know what is wanted of him immediately, but if he doesn't ask now and he chooses incorrectly, he thinks things will be worse.

Sam and Stark's eyes meet and they say something without speaking aloud. The Soldier can't interpret it. "To eat," Sam says, and there is a flutter in the Soldier's stomach. He doesn't know how. If they order him to, the possibility of failure is high.

"I don't eat," he says.

"And not eating is why you were passed out for two days in my guest room." Stark's voice is soft. "One does not live on brooding Soviet good looks alone, you know."

The Soldier shakes his head. How can these people have repaired and scanned his body and still be so clueless as to the way that it operates? "I don't eat ever," he tries again. "I don't need to."

The periods of silence in this room are not restful and calming like the silence of the cryo-tank. There is an overwhelming sense of wrongness pressing down on him and he can tell from the way they regard him that he's done something bad, but he cannot determine what it is. He thinks with HYDRA, he would at least know why he had angered his handlers.

"Bucky, you have to eat to survive," Sam says, taking a seat beside him. There is hardness in his face now, his expression almost pained. "That's how your body operates. If you don't eat, you don't have the energy or nutrients to function. And your metabolism is much faster than the average person's, so you need to eat more often."

Stark snaps his fingers before the Soldier can answer. "Not to mention your arm. That's what powers it: caloric intake. It shut down because you were starving. Worked it out, got it, totally able to replicate it. Sometimes I stun myself."

The look Sam gives him is not one the Soldier can interpret, and Stark clears his throat.

"Or we could go back to the horrific dehumanization," he says. "That's probably more relevant."

The Soldier taps his metal fingers against the IV port. "I operate on this. I always have."

"Not always." Sam speaks with more certainty than the Soldier feels is warranted, given that the Soldier is over twice Sam's age. "HYDRA, they didn't let you eat because they didn't want you to be able to take care of yourself. So they fed you through an IV."

"But that works." The Soldier's stomach is no longer paining him and his body does not feel on the verge of collapse. It seems much simpler and more efficient to continue to survive that way.

"It's not how your body's meant to function," Stark says. "It might work, but it isn't ideal. And considering the sheer intake you need, you'd either have to spend days hooked to a line, or they were overloading you with calories and proteins and just counting on your body to sort it out."

The Soldier thinks the second option is more likely. He also sees no reason to change a system that is clearly working.

"Here." Sam's hands are working at a phone, possibly texting. "Just try soup, okay? I'll pick one out for you so you don't have to worry about it. You'll like it, I promise."

"I don't know how to eat." He doesn't feel broken in admitting it because it's never been a necessary process.

"Soup's easy. It's just like drinking." Sam's phone vibrates and he glances at the screen. "Do you have potato, Tony?"

"Yeah, let me make sure it's pureed."

Three minutes later and there is a bowl of soup sitting in front of the Soldier. It is hot, but not enough that it can burn. His right hand lifts a spoonful, lets it drop back into the bowl. It is thicker than water. Theoretically, it should slide down the same way.

He can feel eyes on him and places the next spoonful into his mouth, tilting his head slightly back to prevent anything slipping back out of his lips.

The Soldier is not prepared for the taste.

The only other taste he knows is that of sugar—sweet?—and the soup is nothing like sugar. He doesn't have the words to describe the flavor, not in English or in Russian. It is warm and heavy but not in a sickening way and it is _good_ and for a minute he forgets to swallow because he's busy savoring the sensation.

Two spoonfuls later, the Soldier decides that spoons are not sufficient and picks up the bowl as if it is a glass, drinking that way.

"It's nice that someone finally appreciates my cooking," Stark says behind him.

Sam either coughs or laughs. "You transferred it from a can to a microwave."

"It counts."

The Soldier sets the bowl gently back onto the tabletop, wiping his mouth. He is smiling again, for the second time in one day. That's never happened before and he's beginning to think this may be the best day of his life. "May I have another?"

"You can have anything you want, Bucky. You're not a tool anymore. You have free will."

The words sound impossible but beautiful. He can't fathom them, but in this instant he is too content to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene in _Iron Man 2_ in which Tony spends three hours trying to make Pepper an in-flight meal and fails miserably would be the incident in question that has her doubting his cooking ability.
> 
> In case you were wondering about the phone, that would be Sam texting Steve to ask what Bucky's favorite soup was.
> 
> And if you were thinking JARVIS has been awfully silent, I figured they would want to ease Winter into the whole "there's an artificial intelligence in this house that watches our every move" thing.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time-wise, this chapter does a bit of jumping around. There's no particular order to it; it's just a series of events I imagine happening during the Soldier's first day in the Avengers Tower.

They don't give him a third bowl of soup because they don't believe his stomach will be able to hold it. His body is full in a way he can't recall the IVs making it feel and the Soldier cannot decide if the sensation is unpleasant. He is led into the bedroom and they connect one of the IV lines back into the port. This one is antibiotics, they say, for the cuts on his leg and hand. The lacerations are almost entirely gone and the Soldier thinks it a waste of the drug, but he doesn't argue.

He anticipates a mission briefing but instead of a dossier, Sam hands him a notebook and ink pen. "Try making a list of anything that's upsetting you, and we'll see what we can do about it."

It's a mission of sorts, but the strangest in his admittedly limited memory. "Upsetting?" the Soldier repeats. The word to him means off balance, but he hasn't felt vertigo since waking up here.

"Unhappy?" Sam offers. "Uncomfortable?"

Off the Soldier's blank stare, he clears his throat and opens his mouth to try again before Stark interrupts, taking out his phone. "Listen, before you start teaching the T-800 to say "hasta la vista, baby," lemme call Pepper. I have an idea."

*

When he looks at the woman named Pepper, he can only focus on her hair. It makes him think of missions, of his own hair being pulled and wire around his throat. He can feel shockwaves up the metal arm and he presses his body against the headboard of the bed to keep himself from diving at her, but Pepper's smile doesn't falter.

"It's nice to meet you, Bucky," she says as she hands Stark a shopping bag.

The bag turns out to be full of books. They are large, thin, mostly made of pictures, and Stark gives them to the Soldier to read. The most relevant title, he thinks, is the one called _The Way I Feel,_ and after he has read through it six times, carefully examining the images on each page, he thinks he understands what "unhappy" means.

The next book, _A Terrible Thing Happened,_ is about an unhappy raccoon with bad dreams and bad memories. The Soldier reads it forty times.

*

He begins writing the list in Russian before realizing that his new handlers likely cannot read it. As he turns the page and starts over, the Soldier finds that he prefers writing in English. The letters form more naturally that way.

The first item on the list was going to be that he's incapable of performing self-maintenance, but another of the books from Pepper has taken care of that.

*

_1\. I don't know enough words._

"It takes a while to build up language," Sam explains as the Soldier examines the book on signing. "Especially as an adult. You'll get there, but it's gonna take time. So if you don't know a word or you're feeling too overwhelmed to speak, you can always use these, all right? We'll understand you."

The sign for "stop" is made by holding out the left hand, palm up. The side of the right hand comes down onto the left palm. He repeats it three times, executing it perfectly but still confused. "I thought this was stop?" the Soldier asks, repeating the gesture Stark had demonstrated before using the scanner.

"Only for billionaire playboy idiots," Sam says, rolling his eyes.

From the other room, Stark calls, "Billionaire playboy _geniuses,_ thank you."

*

_2\. The bed has too much space._

"Too much space?" Sam repeats.

The Soldier shrugs, holding out his hands to demonstrate the amount of room around him in the cryo-tank. It was much tighter. He was also standing in it rather than lying down and it wasn't nearly as soft. While he does not miss the cold of the tank, the vastness and malleability of the mattress is disconcerting.

"We can get a narrower bed."

They cannot get it that day, but that night Stark is in the doorway with a blanket in his hands. He lays it on the bed and it must weigh at least forty pounds.

"It was a gift from Pepper. Supposed to help with sleeping, but funnily enough I have a problem passing out when it feels like the life's being pressed outta me. Anyway, since you're used to sleeping in a refrigerator, I thought it might help with the whole wide open spaces issue. Or not. Might make it worse, for all I know. Don't sleep with it if it does, by the way. I have this thing about preferring not to inadvertently traumatize houseguests. Weird, I know."

He is out the door again by the time the Soldier says "thank you."

The bed seems smaller with the weight of the blanket over him. The Soldier lies in the dark, trying to remember how to fall asleep.

*

_3\. I think I may injure people without orders._

_4\. I can't remember things._

_5\. I don't want to have dreams._

When Sam reads the list, he circles those three numbers and says that they can't be fixed instantly, but need to be dealt with in therapy. The Soldier knows neither that word—the translation терапия also draws a blank—nor counseling.

"You know doctors?" Sam asks.

The Soldier thinks of needles and saws and nods.

"Therapists are like doctors, but they deal with the mind rather than the body."

He sees a chair and feels shocks. The Soldier shakes his head, expecting punishment but not caring. He had promised himself he would die before he went back to that and no matter how much he wants to wipe it all away, he remembers the hurt.

"Hey." Sam's hand is hovering near him but not touching. They have yet to touch him without asking. "It won't be like anything HYDRA made you do, all right? It would be like talking, that's it. Nothing else, unless you wanted to."

"I don't speak well." He has to force out the words, mind still restrained in the chair.

"You won't even have to talk if you don't want. It would be to help you, Bucky. Nothing would happen to harm you, I promise."

But the wipes in the chair, those were to help as well.

*

_6\. I don't understand the things Tony Stark calls me._

The Princess Anastasia and Dimitri are dancing on the deck of a ship. "No," says the Dowager Countess in voiceover, "it's a perfect beginning."

Sam stops the DVD as the Soldier blinks at the screen. "Did you like it?"

"I'm Russian," the Soldier says, but that's not exactly true. "I'm…almost Russian. That is…not how things happened in Russia."

"So you _don't_ have zombie mystics and demon trains?" Stark sighs. "Well, there go my vacation plans."

The song that the princess sang is running through the Soldier's mind as they begin the second the movie, _The Wizard of Oz._ He should know this story, he thinks, but the recollection floats just out of reach. The song had said _things I almost remember_ and he begins to understand why Stark gave him the name Anastasia.

*

He does not write the seventh item down, because that would mean putting _I miss Steve_ onto paper for them to see and try to resolve. The Soldier had rendered Steve unconscious last they met because it was that or crush his throat, and he doesn't want to do either of those things again.

Sam or Stark could order him not to and that might overcome it, but neither of them has given any orders of that magnitude yet. Sam keeps impressing that they aren't going to give him orders and the Soldier tries not to linger on that thought because it makes his stomach twist. Do they want him to know what he should do without asking? He can barely read his own body's signals, let alone interpret the desires of others.

Maybe they intend to teach him.

He dreams that night of a hand entwining with his own, a hand that he knows. The dream shifts until the hand is pinning him down as his arm is ripped away, sinew and skin stretching and ripping, and the Soldier wakes panting, immobile and wide-eyed. But even when his heart slows and he's verified that both the flesh and the metal arm are connected to his body, the air in the room remains familiar, as if someone else had been beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture books are among my favorite things in the world, partially because my mother is a children's librarian but also because if you want the most relevant information in the most concise and simple terms as possible, there's no better place to get it than a picture book.
> 
> The books referenced by name in this chapter are real: Janan Cain's _The Way I Feel,_ which is a rhyming book about various emotional states, and Margaret M. Holme's _A Terrible Thing Happened,_ which is a book about a nonspecific traumatic event intended to help children who've experienced traumatic events of their own. Also it is about a raccoon and considering how many times I've called Bucky "Sad Raccoon Eyes" in my head that was just entirely too fitting. I imagine among the other books were Judy Hindley's _How Your Body Works,_ which demonstrates every process of the body as if it's a machine, complete with robot illustrations, and Cornelia Spelman's _Your Body Belongs to You_ , which is mostly about inappropriate touching, but is one of the books on that subject that also carries an overall message of general bodily autonomy and how even innocent touches can sometimes be unwelcome, and that's fine.
> 
> A lot of the things for Winter in this chapter, such as communicating through sign language and the weighted blanket, are based off of therapies and the like for autism. He isn't autistic, but being autistic myself, a number of his difficulties—such as not understanding his own emotions and not being able to read others—are similar to things a lot of neuroatypical people struggle with, and so I wrote the approach to them similarly.
> 
> Weighted blankets are also thought to help with PTSD, and I imagine Pepper would have given it to Tony after the nightmares in IM3.


	29. Chapter 29

In the morning, they bring a tablet to him and ask the Soldier to select clothing from the Internet to be delivered to the tower. He navigates the web pages right-handed, both because that hand is more precise and because the touch screen only registers his left hand half the time. Stark says he can improve the Soldier's hand so that won't be the case in the future. He also says the Soldier should consider clothing that isn't dark leather and that winters tend to look nice in blues and purples.

The Soldier starts a new page of the notebook specifically to record things Stark has said so he can research what they mean. The first two entries are "winter colors" and "leather daddy." The second item makes Sam shake his head and ask Stark about parental Internet controls.

Barnes's jacket in the Smithsonian was blue. Was that because it was a concealing color and Barnes had been a sniper, or because he liked blue? What is there to like about colors? Staring at them, the Soldier thinks he might like blue and green, but he can see no purpose to preferring a specific color for any non-tactical reason.

He also cannot see the purpose for most of the civilian clothing on the website.

"What is the point of 'skinny jeans'?" he asks.

"That's a damn good question," Sam says.

When they bring him back into the kitchen, they ask if he wants to try something new, and of course the answer is no because what's the point in consuming something that may not be as good if he has the option of something he knows he enjoys? He wonders after if that was the right answer. He wonders when they're going to lose patience and start telling him what the right answers are.

He can't remember how long HYDRA's patience could last.

There is a library within the tower, and that is the next place they guide the Soldier. "You said you wanted to expand your vocabulary," Sam explains as they usher him in the door. He remembers there are books that consist of all words and their definitions, and he imagines that is what they mean to give him, but the volumes Stark is offering him appear to be сборник новелл. Narratives, the type that aren't factual accounts.

They're all in English, and some of the names light up a space in his mind where once there might have been memories. Wells, Shelley, Verne. Did Barnes read? Between Stark and Sam, one of them is always interacting with a phone. Steve is somewhere within this building and they must be reporting to him, following his orders. These books, he imagines, are Steve's command, as if the stories can restore the man wiped away.

He doubts that is feasible, but then, to his knowledge he's never read anything that wasn't a dossier or a Wikipedia article, so it isn't as if he has any expertise in this field.

Opening one book, he is stalled on the first sentence when his mind stumbles over the word "picturesque."

"You turn pages right-handed," Stark says, bringing the Soldier's mind away from the text and back into the room.

He does, because the fingers of the left hand tend to fumble with objects as thin and light as sheets of paper and he doesn't want to tear Stark's belongings. "Is that wrong?"

"Hey, far be it from me to tell a man what to do with his left hand." Stark has the same expression as he did yesterday when he was scanning the limb. "But if I can rig it to have consistent capacitive touch—and I can do that in my sleep, by the way—then there's no reason why I couldn't improve the neural feedback in your fingers."

The Soldier stares at his hand. He can see the use in such an upgrade, but he remembers scraping this hand across asphalt to slow his body while sliding down the highway and also catching Steve's shield as it came hurtling toward him. He tries to picture such actions with the hand sending the _danger_ signal to his mind. "Permanently?"

"It wouldn't have to be. It could be like the glove."

Stark leads him to a laboratory almost immediately thereafter. Before he does, Sam insists they discuss Stark's computer system, which he says is throughout the building but especially in the lab, and which he also says can speak. The computer is named JARVIS, and Sam is firm in stressing that he is a friend, not a threat, and an artificial intelligence, not a person watching their movements.

The Soldier, who vaguely recalls a person within a computer, fails to see a meaningful distinction, but it matters to Sam, so he nods.

"It shouldn't be too different from a texting glove," Stark is saying as the Soldier follows after him. The man says many things and by the Soldier's estimate, he comprehends about forty percent of them. "But there the conductive thread makes a circuit between the screen and the skin and your hand has a different capacitance, but then if the fingertips of the glove have synthetic flesh, it should—"

A set of doors swish open to allow them access and a voice intones, **GOOD MORNING, SERGEANT BARNES.** He looks around, not for a body but for something to face as he responds, but he is distracted by the site of the lab itself. It is full of tools and items that are unfamiliar and yet they bring something, some _one_ nameless to mind. He feels—"disappointed" was the word from the book that best describes the sensation—that there should be a flying Cadillac in this room.

What sense does that make?

To his left there is clicking and whirring and a pneumatic claw clamps down onto his arm. A robot of some kind. It is not painful and his mind has already come up with fifty ways to dismantle the creature with minimal damage to himself, but he is so accustomed to being touched without anyone asking and there has been so little of that in the past few days that he simple stands, staring.

"Hey!" Stark is swiping at the machine. "Hands off of Inspector Gadget! Or, uh, actually you're more of a Dr. Claw, aren't you? Whatever. No manhandling the stray assassins, got it? I don't care how shiny they are."

The robot makes a sound and taps at the star on the Soldier's shoulder.

"No, I am _not_ painting one of those on you. No flames either. No racing stripes, no hydraulic piercings. I so did not resurrect you so you could have a mid-life crisis. Now let go of the cyborg."

Rather than let go, the robot begins exploring the Soldier's arm in a manner not unlike Stark's own examination of it, albeit far less deft. Stark sighs.

"Bucky, this is Dum-E. Dum-E, Bucky. Yes, he's one of mine, but in my defense, I was a teenager during that design process. Also I was drunk."

"Hello," the Soldier says. He's never spoken to another machine before.

"Now off," Stark orders. "You have five seconds to grasp the concept of personal space or I will decommission you. Imagine your life as a hat rack. Only with less sentience and all your wiring stripped out because it'd be worth more that way. And newsflash: no one in this building even wears hats."

The robot lets go and the Soldier isn't sure what it does after that, because he's preoccupied with remembering. The threats to that machine: Stark's more creative, but it brings to mind handlers, HYDRA agents. He thinks if he was too slow in coming around out of cryo, or if he didn't grasp an objective quickly enough, they would bring up decommissioning. Or the chair.

A handler is a handler.

The only question that remains is how long it will take these handlers to treat him like the other machines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter! The holiday weekend threw off my writing schedule. Also then I went to write an extremely dark and messed up Winter Soldier one-shot for a kink meme and I needed a break to recollect my soul.
> 
> "Winters look good in blues and purples" is in reference to the "Color Me Beautiful" seasons: that is, a fashion method that assigns a season to you based on your coloring/complexion and tells you what colors look best for that season. Tony would call him a Winter just because of his name, but coincidentally enough, Sebastian Stan actually is a Winter, judging from the season charts I've seen.
> 
> I have a headcanon not particularly supported by anything that Bucky Barnes was a science fiction fan. I also imagine the Soldier would currently find a lot of science fiction cathartic as it deals with themes of what is humanity and feeling displaced in society.
> 
> For anyone on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> сборник новелл = novels


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can all blame [Axelle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Axelle/pseuds/Axelle) for any feels caused by the scene in this chapter with the picture books and sign language. She suggested it and it was just too fitting not to use.

It is in the lab that Stark begins to give the Soldier orders.

The orders are not the sort he remembers receiving from HYDRA. They would send him on assassinations mainly and sometimes abductions. On occasion he thinks he recalls being made to beat information from prisoners. But the orders he can bring to mind all revolve around either death or espionage.

Stark's orders are of an entirely different sort. "Sit down" and "hand me that thing" and "stick out your hand." There are many orders, but they are all of that variety. None require the Soldier to leave the room, let alone pick up a weapon and terminate a target. A test, perhaps, to make sure the Soldier will obey. But Stark speaks to JARVIS in the same manner.

He speaks to Dum-E in mostly threats. In the time since entering the lab, Stark has threatened to turn the robot into a hat rack, to melt him into scrap, and to make him wear a conical hat that is seated on a workbench in the room and that reads DUNCE in large letters. The Soldier doesn't know the word. The threats come each time the robot latches onto the Soldier's arm, and they put a sensation in his stomach that is not hunger and is not pleasant. He doesn't want this robot decommissioned and he can't grasp why the promise of punishment does not deter Dum-E.

Unless Stark is a handler who doesn't follow through on threats. The Soldier cannot recall names and barely remembers their faces, but there were some handlers who shouted admonishments often but always kept their distance. There's no caution in Stark's approach, but it is the nearest memory the Soldier can apply. Between the unfulfilled warnings and the orders inconsistent with the Soldier's function, he wonders if Stark is a bad handler.

But he thinks he prefers being utilized to hand over tools more than being made to kill. And Stark tends to mutter "thank you" once the Soldier has completed an objective.

"Any idea why they slapped a star on it?" Stark asks him after shooing the robot away again.

To his knowledge, no one ever explained the star's purpose. When his memory strains he can recall staring at his hand as a doctor describes its functioning, but he doesn't believe that to be a real memory as it ends with metal fingers around the doctor's throat. He doesn't fight back against handlers. "It may have been—" The Soldier pauses, unsure of the English word and unable to sign it.

"You know it in Russian?" Stark asks. "JARVIS can translate."

" _Отвлечение_."

**A DISTRACTION, SIR.**

"Thank you. Distraction. Because it isn't HYDRA's mark," the Soldier clarifies. "It doesn't come back to them."

"Ah. Makes sense. That, or somebody got really bored and had stencils and Krylon. Here, lemme see your hand." He has put together what resembles a glove but with only the finger portions, and slides it onto the Soldier. "Not the most aesthetically pleasing, but it's a just a mock-up. It won't transmit sensation yet, but you should be able to—"

He directs the hand to a tablet and the Soldier is able to operate the screen.

" _Voila_. Your praise is encouraged, but I am well aware of my genius."

"Thank you, Howard."

He cannot decipher the look that Stark gives him and he isn't sure what he's done to cause it.

*

After Stark declares that enough engineering for one day and the Soldier is made to consume another bowl of soup—a different kind this time, because of a long explanation about sources of nutrients that he half-understands—he is left to his own devices. The Soldier returns to the book from before and finds himself stuck again on the first sentence.

"JARVIS?" he asks the empty bedroom, because Sam had said the computer system was everywhere.

**YES, SERGEANT BARNES?**

He starts but only just, as he was half-expecting the voice. "What does picturesque mean?"

**PICTURESQUE. ADJECTIVE. HAVING PLEASING OR INTERESTING QUALITIES; STRIKINGLY EFFECTIVE IN APPEARANCE. DO YOU NEED CLARIFICATION?**

"No." He thinks about it, deciding he understands. "Thank you."

**YOU'RE WELCOME.**

The Soldier finishes the sentence and begins the second. "JARVIS?"

**YES, SERGEANT BARNES?**

"What is pre…What is pre-ci-pi-tous?"

**PRECIPITOUS. ADJECTIVE. EXTREMELY OR IMPASSABLY STEEP.**

"Thank you."

An hour later he is midway through the second page. _'I am a lone wolf,'_ it reads, _'a solitary man, wandering through a world in which I have no part.'_ The pause this time is not due to a lack of understanding, but an abundance of it. His head is beginning to ache and he decides to return to the illustrated books from the day prior.

*

The feelings book is opened to the "Disappointed" page when the Soldier drops it in Sam's lap. He interlocks the metal fingers with the flesh in front of his chest, his arms moving in a stirring motion.

 **SERGEANT BARNES IS SIGNING "AMERICA,"** JARVIS translates, before either Sam or Stark can ask.

Sam glances from the Soldier to the book, then back. "You're disappointed in America?"

"Did he just discover reality TV?" Stark asks. "JARVIS, tell me you blocked him from TLC—look, kiddo, I know things seem bleak now, but I promise there's quality programming out there. I can make a list—"

" _Нет_." He taps the lines of text reading _I'm disappointed we can't play_ before making the America sign again.

"You miss Steve," Sam says.

" _Да_." He was less alone with Steve, if no less erratic.

"You want to see him?"

The Soldier pauses. He flips the pages back until he reaches the relevant emotion.

"You want to see him, but you're scared to," Sam says, looking up from the book. "What are you afraid of?"

The Soldier places his metal hand to his own throat and mimes choking.

"Are you afraid you'll hurt Steve or that you won't know what to say?" Sam asks, and the answer is both—as well as a memory of Steve's arm wrapped around him on the helicarrier, suffocating him—so the Soldier simply nods again.

"We can mediate," Stark says. "Trust me, I can keep you from putting runs in Cap's tights even if you go berserker."

The Soldier thinks he would doubt that if he knew what berserker meant.

"Bucky, the last time you saw Steve, you weren't expecting to see him. If you see him now, we can help you prepare for that. And you wouldn't have to say anything if that would be too hard. If you _want_ to see him, if you feel up to it, I can give him a call, all right? But only if you're comfortable with it."

He doubts he will ever be comfortable with the thought of seeing Steve. Imagining it makes his chest tighten and feels not unlike drowning. But the panic doesn't stop the wanting, so he nods. " _Да._ "

The look Sam gives him is long and he feels stripped bare by it. But then Sam nods. "Okay, I'll let him know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how in the flashback sequence of the movie, the first thing Bucky does with his metal arm is choke the HYDRA guy with it. You go, Bucky.
> 
> The first book Winter's reading is _The Sleeper Awakes_ by H.G. Wells, which is available in full online if you're curious. It's also super-relevant to Bucky's current situation, or would be, if his grasp of English were high enough at the moment to comprehend all of it.
> 
> Speaking of books and online, if you want to see the exact pages of Janan Cain's _The Way I Feel_ that are referenced in this chapter, there's more than one read aloud of the book on Youtube.
> 
> The sign for "America" is made by interlocking the fingers of both hands as if to make a log cabin and then stirring your arms, like a melting pot. I just find that to be the coolest thing.
> 
> For those on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Отвлечение = Distraction
> 
> Нет = No
> 
> Да = Yes


	31. Chapter 31

The room where they say he will see Steve has three doors, each leading into a hallway. Sam assures the Soldier that at least two exits will remain clear at all times should he need to leave. If he becomes overwhelmed, panicked, tired, if he thinks he will become violent, or if he experiences anything else that necessitates assistance or solitude, Sam says all he need do is speak or sign "stop."

The Soldier thinks that he would sign it. It isn't that he has lost his understanding of English, but his body is all misfiring nerves and the words won't travel through his throat.

The room has two chairs, nearly at opposite corners. Sam directs him to one and when he sits, there is a door to his side and a full view of the room before him.

"You sure you feel up to this?" Sam asks. "Steve will understand if you need more time."

" _Да_." He nods right after the word leaves his mouth, wishing he could take it back. These people aren't Russian. Steve, he thinks, is not happy with the Soldier's previous handlers. Speaking the language he used primarily with HYDRA around Steve and his friends is unwise. They may not punish him for it—though they should; he is programmed to learn through pain—but that doesn't absolve him of such a careless, stupid mistake.

"Okay," Sam says. He has a way of making the word sound as if things _are_ okay, as if the Soldier hasn't been sloppy or inefficient or any of his other many flaws. "I'll go get Steve, all right?"

He just nods this time.

Sam leaves the room and the Soldier reviews the exits. He examines the walls and considers his options for escape should the doors become blocked: the air vent is too narrow, so he would need to break down a door or put his arm through the wall. He begins a mental list of every nonlethal method he has to disable a man, crossing off the items that result in grievous but survivable bodily harm.

"It's good to see you, Bucky."

Steve is sitting down, smiling and tall and

[ _миссия_ ]

perfect. There is no sign of bruising where the Soldier held his throat. He didn't expect there to be bruising because Steve heals the way the Soldier does, only better, but he stares at the lack of it anyway as it is easier than meeting Steve's eyes. He thinks he should nod, say "You too." He thinks James Buchanan Barnes wouldn't have to think of an answer.

The Soldier offers a small and hesitant wave that halts almost as quickly as it begins because he is using his left hand. He thinks Steve probably does not like that hand, so he drops it back into his lap and covers it with the other.

 _You too,_ he tries, but the words won't come. They might be a lie even if he could speak them, as he is thinking of ways to kill Steve without meaning to and so it is not that good to see him. Even if this is the best thing since soup, and maybe better.

He raises his eyes just long enough to meet Steve's smile before he looks away again, and it is definitely better than soup.

"I'm really happy you decided to come here, Bucky." The words sound genuine, if careful and soft. "I never got a chance to thank you for saving me. I'm proud of you."

His _владельцы_ don't require his acknowledgement, even for praise.

[ _But he's my friend too_ ]

With another nod, the Soldier risks a second glance up.

Steve is somehow both the most familiar face the Soldier knows and the strangest. He has at best a handful of memories, fragments he has yet to order into a coherent picture, and so many of them are the other Steve, the smaller one. His mind still struggles to accept that such a transformation is possible. He thinks of the small Steve, the one who introduced him to water in Brooklyn, and wonders why Steve does not stay that way. It would make it easier to stop thinking of him as the mission.

But it would also leave him more exposed.

Big or small, the Soldier thinks Barnes would be able to read that face and some of that ability remains in him. He thinks Steve is honestly happy to see him, and he thinks that knowledge comes partly from the man's expression and not just the certainty that Steve doesn't lie. But there is more there than just happiness. Caution and maybe worry and other things.

It is safer not to meet his face, so the Soldier drops his gaze again. He finds himself staring at Steve's hands. For a moment he thinks of those hands hitting him, suffocating, but then he remembers pencils. He remembers paper and smudges of graphite and eraser shavings.

" _Ты_ —" He stops, tries again. "You…draw?"

"Yeah. I was in art school, before we—before everything. I still do. I don't have any sketches from back then, but—"

The Soldier thinks of the Smithsonian and Wikipedia. He thinks of a book of pictures but his mind won't recall the word. "You have phone?"

Steve takes the phone from his pocket. The Soldier doesn't bother to scrutinize his expression this time, preoccupied with the memory. "Do you want to see it? Should I bring it to you or do you want to—"

The Soldier beckons him with the right hand this time, takes the phone. Steve begins to walk away, but the phone switches to the metal hand and the right hand intertwines with Steve's. " _Пожалуйста, останься._ " He needs information, and what use is pulling it up on the phone if Steve won't be able to see the screen?

He navigates to Wikipedia, finds the picture of the book—the _comic_ , that's what it is called—with Captain America and the young Bucky Barnes in the outfit that is not regulation on its cover. "You draw?"

Steve leans over to examine the image and laughs. The Soldier likes the sound. "Those? No, I didn't. The USO came up with that. See, they thought if you were depicted as a kid, then the kids back home would be more likely to buy 'em. I knew you'd hate it, so I tried to keep it hushed up, but then Dum-Dum found out and gave you hell for it, and I'd never seen you that mad—"

He is still talking and the Soldier tries to hear the words, both because he is meant to listen when he is spoken to and because he thinks he would like the story, but he can't focus because he is remembering.

He remembers a child on a military base. She couldn't have been older than nine and she was staring at Steve, because everyone did. Lord knows Bucky had done his fair share of staring before his mind had been able to reconcile his scrawny punk of a friend with this chiseled god whom Bucky had to raise his head to look in the eye. She had a magazine or something rolled up in her hands and she'd been staring at Steve for the past five minutes with no sign of approaching.

Steve was as good at recognizing attention from little girls as he was from dames, which was to say, not at all. So Bucky had to take action before some kid felt snubbed by Captain America. It was necessary, really. "Hey, little lady. What's your name?"

"Betty." She twisted the thing in her hands. "What's yours?"

He tipped his hat. "Bucky Barnes, at your service."

If her eyes were big before, now they were the size of saucers. She giggled. "Ooh, Bucky, you're so tall!"

He recognized what she was holding then. One of those damn comic books that had him running around in short pants and hose. As a kid sidekick. One of those rags none of the Commandos were allowed to mention anymore unless they wanted him to stop covering their asses from enemy fire. He would grit his teeth, but it wasn't the kid's fault she had terrible taste. "I drank a lotta milk," he said, and vowed to hit Steve later for the giggling he could hear from behind. "Something we can do for you, Betty?"

She unrolled the comic, held it out. "Could you—could you two sign my book, please?"

"Anything for a pretty lady," he said.

Later, after she was done blurting out thank yous, she lingered, looking them over. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"Where are your tights?"

He managed to stammer out something about laundry, and further managed not to slap the shit out of Steve for his damn chuckling until the kid was well out of earshot.

The Soldier bites his tongue. He sets the phone down on the arm of the chair, untangling his hand from Steve's. He half hears Steve's words—"Bucky, what's wrong, tell me what you need"—but he doesn't answer them. With a mumble of " _Я должен идти_ " he is out of the room, running. His chest and throat are burning with sound he won't let slip, hands clamped over his mouth to keep him silent.

It isn't until he is in the room where he sleeps, door closed and face shoved into the blankets, that he allows himself to laugh, to _howl_ with sound until tears are running down his face. It's _funny,_ Bucky Barnes was so, so _funny_ , but HYDRA beat the laughter out of him nearly a century ago and to express it out loud is to earn punishment.

So he stays that way, laughing until his ribs ache and his throat feels raw. He remembers after the computer that can hear his every sound and no doubt reports back to the men, but no one comes to recalibrate or reprimand him. Maybe laughter is allowed here. It wasn't in the book of emotions, but he thinks what he's feeling is hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [Kana_Go's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kana_Go/pseuds/Kana_Go) art of this chapter here: [First laughter](http://kanago.deviantart.com/art/First-laughter-499472008).
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this chapter, it's been a weekend of graduation parties for my relatives.
> 
> If you've never seen the classic Bucky outfit from the comics, from the waist up, it's not unlike his jacket in _The First Avenger_. From the waist down, though, it's the shortest shorts ever (imagine Robin's green shorts, but in blue) and red tights. And it is adorable.
> 
> For those on a mobile or who otherwise can't access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Да = Yes
> 
> миссия = mission
> 
> владельцы = masters
> 
> Ты = You
> 
> Пожалуйста, останься = Please stay
> 
> Я должен идти = I need to leave


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thanks to the awesome [Lady_Clow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Clow/pseuds/Lady_Clow), I've gone back and fixed the Russian translations in the earlier chapters. Thank you so much again for your help!

"You're sure?" the Soldier asks.

They are in the kitchen. His hair is damp because they have just left the bathroom, wherein he had been introduced to the concepts of showers and shaving. Sam had looked cautious when they gave the Soldier the razor, and he cannot determine why. His precision with blades is instinctual and he knows how to run them over skin without cutting. It is an occasionally useful intimidation practice, and now it is a practical skill.

Holding the razor reminded him of his lack of weapons. He is able to defend himself by hand, but the absence of guns and blades is disquieting now that he is aware of it. Perhaps he should take one of the knives from this room. It may become necessary.

"That's the first time anyone's ever asked me if I'm sure about grilled cheese," Stark says, placing a skillet on the stove top. "Yes, I'm sure. Everybody loves these things. Except the lactose intolerant, maybe. You're not lactose intolerant, are you?"

"What means lactose?"

"He's not," Steve says. He is sitting at the far end of the counter top. Steve had been the one to teach the Soldier to wash his hair, and he had left when the razor came out. The Soldier thinks that wise; he does not want to hurt Steve now, but his programming can make him want. And it is hard enough to ignore his mission when he is not armed.

"Well then. And I'm guessing you're not vegan or celiac either. Which, even if you were, it's gluten free bread." Stark drops a sandwich into the skillet and is carrying on before the Soldier can ask the definition of any of those words. "So trust me, Steadfast Tin Soldier, you're gonna like it."

"It seems an unnecessary risk." Soup is liquid. He can consume that without issue and from what he understands of human nutrition, there is nothing preventing him from surviving on entirely liquids. The act of chewing and swallowing is not something he can remember attempting.

"It's cheese and bread. That's about as dangerous as newborn kittens."

There is a spark of memory. "This is…" he hesitates, mind stumbling before it recalls the word. "This is fondue?"

"No, this is a sandwich. But hey, if you wanna catch up on missing the sixties, I can always get a melting pot."

The Soldier shakes his head, brows coming together. "But fondue is cheese and bread. You said when you took us to Lucerne."

Stark gives an expression he can't read and is beginning to say something when Steve speaks. "You remember Lucerne?"

"No." He watches as Steve's face—is "falls" the correct term? "But I know we went. And fondue is cheese and bread, yes?"

"Yes, but not _all_ cheese and bread is fondue." Stark sets the spatula down on the counter top. "It's like how all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares, you know? Only not, because fondue doesn't even have to involve cheese or bread. There's always chocolate and strawberries."

"What is chocolate?"

**YOU MAY KNOW IT AS _ШОКОЛАД ,_ SERGEANT BARNES.**

"Oh, you poor deprived child. JARVIS, call Pepper. Tell her we're gonna need a box of Godiva. No, make that a crate."

"You do not want to overdose him on caffeine and sugar," Steve says. "He tried espresso once in Italy and I honestly thought we were going to cause an international incident. I mean, he hadn't slept for days before that, but his reaction was still—"

"I remember _шоколад._ " The Soldier recalls the taste, thick and sweet. "They gave it to me. I think after a mission once."

He thinks from the way that Steve goes tense and silent that he has said the wrong thing.

"I thought they didn't let you eat?" Sam asks. The Soldier is not sure when he came in.

"I didn't. I…held it in my mouth until it became liquid?" He didn't question HYDRA's gifts. If they wanted to reward him with objects, he would take them unless someone else of a higher rank protested. If they wanted to put rewards in his mouth, he would not struggle. "They had things. Sometimes. After missions. I had vodka." He remembered the awful burn of it, the bottle with the red star that they held to his lips. "The last one would—" The Soldier can't remember the word, and strokes a hand through his hair to demonstrate the motion. "That, after I terminated targets. I think."

"Pierce?" Steve asks. His voice is low and flat.

The Soldier shakes his head. Pierce would talk at him when he had made the man happy. He didn't touch if it wasn't a punishment. "The one who led missions. Rumlow?"

Steve's fist stops a centimeter before it can connect with the granite counter top. "Excuse me," he says, voice very still and quiet. It is the sort of voice the Soldier connects to incoming blows, and he waits to be struck. But Steve stands instead, leaves the room at a fast but controlled pace.

"I was bad," the Soldier says. He has upset Steve somehow. He looks at the others in the room, wondering which of them will inflict punishment for his misbehavior.

"No, Bucky, you weren't." Sam takes a seat beside him.

"I made him angry."

"HYDRA made him angry. You haven't done anything wrong, all right? You never had a choice in the things they made you do. And it's not wrong to talk about what you've been through. Granted, we might want to come up with a more specific time and place to talk just about that, but you're remembering. It's a good thing."

What benefit is there in remembering his time as HYDRA's asset? It does not teach him how to be human, and it isn't the sort of memory that makes Steve smile. At best, it demonstrates that he is capable of regaining memories, but he was already aware of that. The word for this sensation is frustrated, probably.

Sam sighs. "There any tea in this place? I feel like we could all go for a cup of tea."

Stark indicates one of the cabinets. "I'm pretty sure Bruce stockpiles it there."

"I'll make it." The Soldier stands up. The distraction is welcome.

"You drink tea?" Sam asks.

" _Нет_." The answer is automatic and so it slips out in Russian. Maybe Barnes drank tea. The Soldier did not. "But I know how to make it." He isn't sure why anyone from HYDRA would bother to teach him that, but he doubts it is a recollection from before he was an asset. If he could remember making tea as James Buchanan Barnes, why wouldn't he remember food and how to consume it?

"The fondue is burning," he adds, eyes falling on the smoking skillet as he retrieves a box of tea from the cabinet.

Stark swears and forbids them to mention this to Pepper. The second sandwich does not burn. Between the tea and the grilled cheese, once the Soldier has worked out the process of chewing, he thinks he prefers the sandwich. It has more textures and flavors and it begins to occur to the Soldier that there is more to consuming food than simply keeping the body running. He thinks he enjoys the process of consumption. He also thinks it would be better if Steve were still in the room, and that in the future, he should keep silent about the memories from HYDRA.

Though, the more he remembers of HYDRA, the more he thinks Steve was with him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After watching and analyzing _Iron Man 3_ way too many times, I have a headcanon that Pepper or someone else close to Tony may have celiac disease, due to the scene in which Tony can't remember what he had for breakfast and JARVIS says gluten free waffles. Which would suggest Tony's gluten free for medical reasons or health concerns, but later on in the movie he specifically asks Harley for a sandwich when it's unlikely that Harley would have gluten free bread around. So I imagine if anyone other than Tony is gluten free, it's probably Pepper.
> 
> The Steadfast Tin Soldier is a Hans Christian Andersen story about a one-legged toy soldier which ends with soul-crushing sadness just like everything Hans Christian Andersen wrote.
> 
> The vodka in a bottle with a red star that Winter remembers is Medoyeff Vodka.
> 
> I imagine somebody got bored on a mission at some point and taught the asset how to make tea so that they could be lazy. And also because getting the world's most powerful, dangerous assassin to steep beverages for you is some kind of power trip.
> 
> For those on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian in this chapter are as follows:
> 
> шоколад = chocolate
> 
> Нет = No


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone, my cousins had a high school graduation and much of my weekend was spent with family as a result.
> 
> A review of the last chapter reminded me that Disney created an animated short of _The Steadfast Tin Soldier_ for _Fantasia 2000_ and revised the ending to not be soul-crushingly sad. So if you're interested in checking out that story and not sweeping your heart up off the floor, the short is [on Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fKyb_J91sM)

He spends a full week in the tower before he tries the thing that Sam calls therapy.

On the third day, the day with the sandwich and the memories the Soldier should have kept quiet, Steve finds him that evening and says that he has to leave in the morning, just for a few days, has to work. He reassures the Soldier that Stark and Sam and JARVIS will be there the whole time, says he will probably be back before he's even missed. He'll have a phone that the Soldier can text or call at any time and Steve will answer as soon as he can. But he has to go, has to set things right with the government after he dismantled SHIELD and let all their secrets slip online.

The Soldier listens and nods and does not send his metal fist slamming through something.

"I hate the government," he announces the next morning, while Stark is trying to introduce him to bacon. He doesn't quite remember what hate is, but he thinks if he knew, that is what he'd be feeling.

Stark pats his shoulder. "Don't we all, pal."

Sam raises an eyebrow and doesn't speak. The next time Pepper brings over picture books, they are about things like jealousy and loneliness. The Soldier decides this is some sort of commentary, but he cannot decide if he is offended by it. He tries to read the books anyway, as they are easier to follow than the ones without illustrations. But then he starts a book about a girl with a new baby brother and his mouth is smiling until he reaches the sentence "Lilly spent more time than usual in the uncooperative chair" and decides that is enough reading for one day.

He spends much of his time in Stark's lab. There are other robots he meets named Butterfingers and U, who both look like Dum-E but who do not try grabbing onto his arm. He tends to linger near them because of this, though he waves the flesh hand in Dum-E's direction whenever the opportunity presents itself. Dum-E does not pursue him, though he sometimes stares in their direction and make low clicking sounds that hurt the Soldier's chest when he hears them. But he doesn't want the robot decommissioned, so he keeps his distance.

Stark is bossy—he thinks that is the word—especially when they are in the lab, and the Soldier prefers that. Orders, even when they are as simple as Stark's, make the sudden expanse of waking time and new experiences easier. And Stark likes to talk about his inventions and plans. He talks very much about so many things and doesn't mind that the Soldier listens in silence. His face lights up in the rare moments when the Soldier does have questions, even more than the brightness that is always in his features. He finishes the glove that enables the Soldier's fingers to feel, and the Soldier takes to wearing it constantly because it is a gift and he is grateful, even if the sudden increase in feeling can be overwhelming.

But Stark isn't always in his lab, and the Soldier must find other ways to pass the time. He is getting better at the books, he thinks, able to turn pages with either hand and no longer taking an hour to make it through a page. He understands more words now, though the plots and the emotions of the characters elude him. There is also the Internet, and whatever the "parental controls" are that Sam enabled, they do not keep him from reading history. Sometimes he will read about a death and recall causing it, or know without remembering that a fatal "accident" wasn't. It makes his head ache and whenever it happens, he finds something else to do.

Stark has a large collection of movies and about half of them have been marked with red stickers, which indicate they are films the Soldier isn't ready for. He doesn't know what it means to be ready. Stark says it means "when you're older, kid," but the Soldier is probably twice Stark's age. Many of the movies that provide Stark's nicknames for the Soldier are on the restricted list, such as _Star Wars_ and _The Bourne Identity_ and _Terminator._ He can't decide whether he likes the movies he is permitted to watch. There was a musical with a flying car that was nice at the beginning and became progressively less so as it went on. There are very many cartoons and he feels a disproportionate number of them are about princesses. There is a movie about the little orphan Annie and he thinks Barnes would have liked the dancing in it.

Every night, when he lies under the heavy blanket and tries to remember how to fall asleep, he is struck by the lack of _purpose._

Nothing with HYDRA was without purpose. He did not wake unless there was a reason, did not move or speak or hold a weapon without an objective. He was rarely ever conscious and every second that he was, there were grounds for it.

Now there is nothing but the waking, and nothing is achieved by it. The predominant sensations are apathy and confusion, and neither feeling is alleviated by anything he does. On the morning Steve comes back, the Soldier slips shaving his face. One second he is staring at his reflection and the next he recalls running a knife through a target's throat, and then there is a small amount of blood dripping into the sink. The little spark of pain is the most he has felt in days.

HYDRA said that order came from pain. He thinks if there were more order in his life, it would be easier to work out humanity.

The cut is healing by the time Steve comes home, tired and with a limp that he hides almost successfully. When he had said work, the Soldier assumed it was some sort of propaganda or negotiation. He had not thought of combat. He thinks James Buchanan Barnes would have accompanied Steve on such a mission and thinks that he should be doing so as well. But he barely understands how to care for himself and he has periods of instability and now the Soldier would be a liability.

He said he would rather die than return to the chair. That feeling has not changed. But order comes from pain and perhaps Stark can come up with some other way to fix him. Perhaps they can numb him somewhat before they strap him down. He thinks Steve's friends will be nicer about reprogramming him. He hopes that after they have taught him to be a person once, he will not need regular maintenance.

Sam called fixing the mind therapy. The morning after Steve's return, when Sam has come back to the tower after running, the Soldier finds him and asks for it.

"What's on your mind?" Sam asks once they are sitting down.

He forces his hands not to clench. The feel of his fingers pressing against his palms is overwhelming now that the left fingers can also sense the touch. He relays the information as he would with a mission report, or as he would list injuries to a medic if prompted. "I am restless." He knows the word because he looked it up before this conversation. "I lack direction and a clear goal. I want to be a person and I do not feel like one and don't know how it's meant to feel. I have no structure."

"All right," Sam says. His eyes are not disinterested as other handlers could look, but the Soldier cannot read intent into them past that. "Any ideas on what you'd like to do about that?"

The Soldier shakes his head, refuses to let his teeth clench. He wonders if this is a test, all the choosing that they permit him. He thinks choosing is what people do—didn't the English voice inside him say that once?—but he is not a person yet, and he can't do it properly. If he must fail this test for them to repair him, then he will. "I don't have ideas," he says. "I lack…I can't operate without orders. Tell me what to do. Please." The word sounds strange in his mouth.

"I can't do that, Bucky."

"Tell me what to do," the Soldier repeats, uncomprehending. His handlers have never had trouble with orders before.

Sam leans forward, sighs. "This isn't HYDRA, Bucky. We'll never treat you like that. You can choose for yourself now, and no one else can do that for you. I know it's a lot to take in, but—"

"Just once." Is his tone called pleading? "Teach me to be a person. Reprogram me. I'll make my own choices once I know how. You can put it in my head and I won't ask again. I won't have to. I'll know what you want."

The expression Sam makes in response to his words is slightly wide-eyed but controlled. The Soldier isn't sure what it means, but the growing adrenaline in his stomach suggests that the reply will not be favorable. "Bucky, we don't _want_ anything from you, other than for you to be happy and safe. You don't have to follow orders anymore. We aren't going to give them to you—that isn't how people live. At least, it shouldn't be."

His words are nonsensical. James Buchanan Barnes followed orders. Even Steve follows orders, the Soldier thinks. They have more say in the matter than assets do, but there are still _orders._ What is life without orders? "I can't operate."

The words come out flat though he is shaking internally. He has no way to view the world without some form of command to provide a framework. He knows of no way to approach _anything_ without orders. The Soldiers remembers, quite suddenly, a mission. An earthquake. The ground giving way beneath their transport. That sudden lack of stability is what he feels now. Anything could happen if there is no order against it. He could kill them all now, whether he wants it or not. There is nothing to prevent him.

"Bucky—" Sam is saying, but the Soldier is up, racing through the tower. He needs Steve because Steve is Captain America, and a captain will understand the importance of orders, the necessity of keeping men and weapons alike in line.

" _Помоги мне._ " The Soldier grabs Steve's arm, his breathing fast and shallow. His chest feels as if restraints are clamping around him, but with none of the repair that accompanies being bound. "Fix me. I require maintenance."

"Bucky, what?"

Steve is holding him, concerned, trying to make their eyes meet, but the Soldier can't look because Steve was his last mission and if these people are not handlers then technically he is still HYDRA's and the mission is still active and he's likely not enough of a person to refuse it and the Soldier is scared. "Help me," he begs, and behind him he hears Sam enter the room, feels Steve look at the other man.

"What's going on?" Steve asks, and the Soldier can hear that same deliberately steadiness in his tone that was there the other day.

"He thought we were in charge of him," Sam says. "That we'd be giving commands."

Steve's hand brushes the Soldier's jaw line, tilts his head up so they are looking at each other. The Soldier has not felt so wide-eyed and stunned with shock since he recognized Steve on the helicarrier. He feels too much, not just in his hand but everywhere. "Bucky," Steve begins, "we're going to help you," and the Soldier can almost breathe. But then he adds, "We'll help you, but we aren't your masters, all right? You're a person, you—"

"Fix me." His voice is small and he is tense and trembling as if he's just come out of the chair, and for once that would be a welcome occurrence and why are these people so nonchalant as if the world isn't falling apart, as if he won't destroy them? "Reprogram me, _пожалуйста, пожалуйста,_ I'll be good, I won't scream, I won't—"

"Bucky." Both of Steve's hands are on his face now, holding him still. His eyes look wet and the Soldier doesn't understand because the recalibration doesn't hurt the handler. "Bucky, listen to me, all right? I will do whatever I can to help you. But I won't do _that._ Not ever. I will never hurt you that way. I've read what they did to you, I've seen—I _won't._ You don't ever have to be afraid of that."

His mouth won't move to say he's not afraid. He cannot lie. But he's more afraid, much more afraid, of what will happen without the chair.

"That won't help you, Bucky." Steve draws him closer, runs a hand up and down the Soldier's back. It's a familiar motion, one used to help his body overcome the uncontrollable tremors after a memory wipe. It doesn't stop his trembling now. "Trust me, okay? I won't hurt you, no one will, we'll find something else that will help—"

The memory feels like a blow to his head, it is so sudden. He remembers struggling against a chair, pushing one-armed to free himself from it while hands tried to force him down. He remembers sickness, shaking, crying, and most of all he remembers _Steve._ Steve standing before him, looking down at him. And Steve's words: _They're trying to help you…you have to trust me._

" _Лицемер_!" he snarls, hands slamming into the center of Steve's chest, knocking him back. "You're the one who said I should let them do it!"

His breathing grows more labored as it strikes him that Steve can lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those on a mobile or who otherwise can't access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Помоги мне = Help me
> 
> пожалуйста = please
> 
> Лицемер = Hypocrite
> 
> By "work with the government," Steve means "go blow the crap out of HYDRA bases they're finding so that I can vent my considerable rage about my friend's treatment."
> 
> The book with the "uncooperative chair" is Kevin Henkes's _Julius, The Baby of the World_ and it is one of the greatest children's books of all time (my household has a copy autographed by the author, that's how much we loved it growing up). The uncooperative chair means being sent to time out, but with that phrasing, Winter would of course interpret it rather differently. The exact page in question can be seen [here.](http://absurdbeats.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/lily-chair.jpg)
> 
> Winter's not allowed to watch Star Wars: A New Hope because of the arm sliced off in Mos Eisley, and because then he would want to watch Empire Strikes Back, with its carbonite freezing and its hand-chopping. He is not allowed to watch the prequels because almost everything about Anakin Skywalker would be a trigger. The Bourne movies are about brainwashing and amnesia, and the Terminator franchise is too violent for his current state.
> 
> The musical with the flying car is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and if the child catcher in that movie didn't upset him, the lyrics to the [Doll on a Music Box song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbX3ZSr43KA) probably would.
> 
> Honestly, though, I can see him reacting adversely to almost any movie. Even most Disney cartoons, because most Disney cartoons are actually quite distressing.
> 
> The memory of the earthquake comes from the seventh chapter of this story, way back. The memory of the chair and Steve is from the third chapter.


	34. Chapter 34

"What?"

Steve does not move away from the wall he struck when the Soldier shoved him. His face is still, eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open. The Soldier doesn't bother to decipher the expression. He can't look at Steve; the more he looks the more he is torn between completing his mission and hugging the man in atonement for shoving and throttling him for _lying_.

" _Лгун_ ," the Soldier mumbles, stunned. " _Лгун._ " How can Steve lie? He never lies; that was the first thing the Soldier could remember about him. No, the second. The first memory, the one that preceded any knowledge of Steve's honesty or even his name, was

[ _he was there he stayed with me I remember he was there_ ]

a friend kneeling over the broken body, Steve's smile providing the only warmth while Barnes lay bleeding in the snow.

The memory hurts, stinging like ice and wind scraping exposed skin, and other, similar recollections come trickling from nowhere, pooling together like a puddle of blood formed from many little slices. He can see a tile floor, the grout lines stained red. A cell. He sees his body strapped down while the flesh is peeled back from his left arm, exposing the bone. He sees weapons and oranges and fire hoses and Zola and most of all he sees Steve.

"Bucky—"

There is a hand on his shoulder and the Soldier strikes out. " _Не трогай меня_!" The metal rams into Steve's chest and sends him staggering back into the wall. The plaster cracks this time. Over his heartbeat he can dimly hear JARVIS translating his words but all he can see is the damage to the wall and blood on tile and it isn't his wall to break, it's Howard's, and he's going to be beaten for this, going to be sent back to the chair, but isn't that what he wanted?

"Okay." It's the winged man's voice, far off. "It's okay." It's closer this time, and he manages to look the man's way. "No one's gonna lay their hands on you again, all right? We want to help you, but you need to explain what's upsetting you. Can you do that?"

" _Я хочу домой_." It is a low whine forced from a throat that hadn't planned to speak, fingers winding through his hair. It is a lie but it is also true and he shouldn't be able to lie so he tugs on the hair in punishment. The Soldier hears Steve's intake of breath, quiet but sharp, and flinches.

"You want to go home," the man who had wings repeats. He hasn't moved. "Where is that, Bucky?"

His legs cease to hold him up and he is huddled on the floor, hair in a dark curtain over his eyes, forehead almost resting against his knees. "Ice." His voice is choked. "Dark." But he's never gone into the tank in such a state. "I am erratic." The English words he needs flow smoothly now, words he must have learned from the doctors even though his mind cannot retrieve the context. "When the asset is erratic, the asset is a danger to itself and to others and must be recalibrated. The asset must be wiped, must be—you _said._ " Through his hair he can see Steve's shoes, lingering not close to him but not nearly far enough away. "You _said_ to let them help me. Why won't you help me now?"

This must be a game. Handlers are allowed to lie to their assets if they wish, if it is necessary or if it amuses them. Steve was there from what the Soldier thinks was the beginning of Barnes's time with HYDRA. He must have condoned it. This is all a game, from the helicarrier to the present. A joke or a test of his loyalty and if it's the latter, he's surely failed.

But there is no laugh in Steve's voice when he says, "Bucky, I don't understand what you're talking about."

"The first time they took Barnes to the chair." He thinks it was the first time. There is no laugh in the Soldier's voice either, but assets aren't meant to laugh, even at jokes. They're also not meant to cry, but that _is_ in his voice and he is rigidly awaiting a slap as a rebuke. "And he—I was _испуганный_ and trying to get away and you told me to stop fighting. You said 'Trust me, Bucky.'"

He can see the cell again, hear Barnes's words coming through his mouth. _Get me out of here._

He hears Steve's voice in reply. _I can't._

"Buck—"

"I didn't like it," the Soldier says, and his body feels as if it is sliding into what the medics called shock.

He had never been unhappy with HYDRA, not that he could remember, until they sent him after Steve on the helicarrier. In the flashes of past missions he can pull to mind, he didn't feel happy, but he didn't feel anything. The only sparks of emotion were contentment when his handlers were pleased and apprehension when they were not. Assets have no feelings of their own. He'd thought his dislike of the missions and the chair were new sensations brought about by Steve's attempts to awaken Barnes.

But sitting in that cell, starving, aching, and exhausted… "I didn't like it."

And Steve had known he hadn't.

His hands clamp onto his own legs, bruising, so that he will not stand up and attack Steve.

Through his hair he sees Steve sit on the floor as well, and the Soldier closes his eyes so he will not have to meet the man's gaze. "Bucky," he says, and the Soldier's mind will never cease to spin at all the feelings Steve can put into that name, "Buck, I wasn't there. When HYDRA had you, I was in the ice."

It's the same lie from the Smithsonian and the Internet. The nails of the right hand dig into his leg through the fabric of his pants, teeth grinding. He raises his head. Assets are not meant to stare at their handlers this way. It is a sign of defiance and it is to be severely punished. But the Soldier doesn't care. There is nothing else in his life he has ever been sure of but he is sure of this and he will not play whatever game this handler wants to play with him. "You said you wouldn't leave me. In the snow, before HYDRA took us."

"Bucky," says the man who had wings, but the Soldier carries on. Whatever the man has to say does not matter. Nothing matters but the memories.

"They set my bones and you were there. We watched them cut it away." He tilts his head toward the metal arm, but his eyes do not leave Steve's. "You told me to get in the chair and I _умолял_ you to save me and you said you couldn't. You let them put me in ice. I _remember._ "

He thinks a friend who would do those things is a bad friend. Steve had said he would never hurt him. The Soldier's eyes are leaking again. This is called sadness. He preferred it when he didn't know the names of these sensations. They were easier to push aside.

Steve went very white at the mention of the Soldier's arm, which was an accomplishment as he was already white before. He looks as if he is bleeding out. His hand is pressed over his mouth and his eyes are shining in a way that suggests they may leak.

"Do you know what a hallucination is, Bucky?" the man who had wings asks.

He falters, though he does not look away from Steve. "Pictures…pictures in the head while sleeping."

"That's close. When you're sleeping, they're dreams. A hallucination is sensing something that isn't there while you're awake."

"I do not follow."

"You fell alone, Buck." Steve is still so pale. The Soldier wonders if he did more damage to the man than he realized when he pushed him into the wall. "I looked for you after you fell, I did, but—God they must have already had you—and I wanted to keep looking, I would have frozen to death searching, I would have—you fell in some of the most inhospitable conditions on Earth—I couldn't find you and—"

"But you were there," the Soldier says.

"I wasn't. Bucky, I'm sorry, I wasn't."

He is programmed not to argue. The asset's design is such that if someone in a position of authority tells him the sky is green, he will rename what he thinks of as blue to match the information he is given. But he can't cast this aside, even if his next words make him shrink in on himself as he waits to be punished. "I remember you were there."

"You had a traumatic brain injury," the man who had wings says. "We have some of your files—they talk about it there. Hallucinating after that kind of damage isn't unheard of, and with the drugs they were giving you—"

"But I _remember._ " He does not intend for his voice to break on the final word.

Steve lifts a shaking hand as if to reach out to him before lowering it back to his lap. "Bucky—"

"You said you have his files?" Howard Stark asks from the doorway. The Soldier does not know when he came in. "I say let him see them."

*

There is a photograph of him in the file. He stares at it for a long while before he reads any of the words. He's never seen a picture of himself before. Pictures of Barnes, yes, he's seen dozens of those, but the image of himself sleeping in the ice is, to his knowledge, the only photograph of himself in existence.

He looks content, sleeping. He misses that.

There are many things within the file he remembers, details he did not mention before they went to retrieve it, such as the time they tried to bribe him to behave with oranges. There are details he hadn't remembered: it says that he recalled his name after the first wipe, but lost it permanently after the second.

There is no mention of Steve, no reference to any other captive.

The document could be falsified, but the Soldier can see no point in such a game.

So his strongest memories are not real. The very memories that persuaded him to abandon his mission are the products of a broken, drugged mind.

Barnes may have laughed at that, but it would be the kind of laugh that becomes a cry.

He feels Steve's eyes on him and closes the file. "I don't know you."

"Bucky, that's not true."

"All the things I thought I knew weren't real. Everything I remembered…" He shakes his head. The left hand is squeezing his right wrist, and it will turn black and purple with bruising, but the ache of it will be a welcome distraction. "What if everything I remember is a lie?"

"You remembered I can draw," Steve says. "That was right."

"I can't tell the difference." The memory of Steve with a pencil feels exactly the same as the memory of him at the chair.

"That's what I'm here for, Bucky."

He imagines consulting Steve for every small glimpse of a memory he retrieves. _Did a young girl ask Barnes about his tights? Did you throw up on a roller coaster?_ He thinks Captain America has better things to do with his time. "He isn't coming back, is he?"

"Who?"

"James Buchanan Barnes."

Steve does not touch him. Instead, he offers that blanket of Stark's, the heavy one that Sam had retrieved while Steve found the file. The Soldier unclenches his fingers from his wrist—there are white marks on his skin that immediately flush red—and takes it, draping it around his shoulders. "Bucky, listen. You could never remember anything else about your life—you could remember just things that never happened—and I wouldn't care. Because you're still my best friend. You were my best friend when you were shooting at me, you think that's going to stop now just because you don't know things?"

But how to be a best friend is one of the things he doesn't know. The Soldier's gaze drifts to the broken plaster that Stark had told him not to worry about. He thinks a best friend should not have thrown Steve into the wall.

 _Я хочу домой,_ the Soldier thinks, but he doesn't know what is left of his home or how he would get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Не трогай меня – Don't touch me
> 
> Лгун - Liar
> 
> Я хочу домой – I want to go home
> 
> испуганный – scared
> 
> умолял - begged


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the downside to writing this story entirely from Winter's POV is that everyone else's reactions have to be implied rather than outright stated. I've had a lot of people request an insight into what's happening with Steve's emotional wellbeing in regards to all of this, so here's an attempt to convey that through Winter's eyes.
> 
> Also, **this chapter graphically details the amputation of Bucky's arm,** as a warning.

He sits in silence with the blanket draped over him. It is the closest he can come to the confining space of the cryo-tank, but it lacks the numbness provided by both the cold and the sleep. He tries to fall asleep as he sits, but he can't remember how and even if he did manage, the Soldier thinks there would be dreams.

The marks on his arm go from red to black and are starting to fade to purple when Sam clears his throat. "Do you want to talk, Bucky?"

" _Нет._ " The worries of this morning are now subdued. He still does not know how to function without orders, and any dangerous, terrible thing is likely to happen if he continues to operate without them, but the feeling is muted. Perhaps he has felt too much and overloaded his senses, like a nerve firing so often it burns itself out. Perhaps his emotions were another hallucination, and disproving the false memories has crippled the feelings as well.

He would not mind that, he thinks. He cannot envision hurt caused by a lack of sensation.

Whatever has broken or repaired itself inside his mind, there is nothing to be gained from speaking and the English language appears to be slipping from his grasp again.

"All right." Sam stands up. "If you need to later, JARVIS will find me for you, all right?"

" _Да._ "

Steve remains in the room but the Soldier does not look at him, eyes locked onto the broken wall. His mind is still fixated on "home," and he wonders what there would be to return to. Pierce is dead; he read that online, days ago. The Soldier is not sure of the reaction he should have to his handler's death. He is designed to protect handlers at all costs, an impulse imprinted within him whenever a new master was introduced. And he had been Pierce's, he thinks, for some time: if his memory strains he can see the man younger, with more red in his hair. But handlers age and in the blink of an eye, they become old and frail and dead. He is not programmed for sentiment.

Pierce is dead and HYDRA is exposed. But HYDRA is also clever. There will be hidden bases, splinter factions. Where he could find them is another question entirely, and while he is confident that he could track them down if he tried, he is less sure he would be able to follow their orders, despite the peace that comes from obeying. His last mission from HYDRA was to kill Steve. It is not unlikely that they would still want that objective carried out were he to return.

He is wondering what happened to Rumlow and the rest of the strike team when Steve speaks.

"You should put ice on that, Buck."

He follows Steve's gaze to his bruised wrist, shrugs. It doesn't trouble him. The injury is not debilitating and there is a familiarity in pain that is almost soothing.

"Come on," Steve says, hand extended to the Soldier. He is still pale and his smile is a fraction too wide.

The Soldier slides off the glove before he takes Steve's hand, the metal having been warmed enough under its covering that the temperature should not be uncomfortable on the man's skin. He allows Steve to lead him and notes that, with the glove removed, he can hardly feel Steve's hold. If his memory is correct—though the odds are it is not—he couldn't feel Steve's contact at all when he was becoming the Soldier in that bloodstained cell.

That should have been a clue.

Steve does not lead him to the kitchen, but rather an elevator. The Soldier slides the blanket from his shoulders as they descend, draping it over the bruised arm. It is an awkward motion due to the heft of the blanket and the way Steve is still holding the left hand, but he manages.

"I should have been there," Steve says.

 _You were there,_ the Soldier does not say, because it would be lying. But to him the memory is as genuine as anything else, and he sees no reason for Steve to be distressed over his absence when the Soldier never perceived it.

The elevator stops and opens into what the Soldier takes for a training room. There is a wall of mirrors, a boxing ring, weights, a punching bag, and all other manner of equipment. He does not see any weapons, but there are storage lockers within the room and anything could be stored inside them. There is also an ice machine and a bar, and that is what Steve leads him to.

He starts when the bag of ice is pressed to his forearm. The cold is numbing and painful all at once and it feels like waking up for the first time since he came to in the chair after the wipe that preceded the helicarrier mission.

"Too cold?" Steve asks.

" _Нет. Идеально_." He opens the bag and takes an ice cube out, pressing it directly to the skin. The Soldier exhales. There is a sound to his side and he turns, watching as Steve retrieves long cloth wraps from one of the lockers.

Steve winds a wrap tight around his wrist, working up to the knuckles. He is preparing to hit something. The events of the day and all prior life experience up to this point would indicate that the Soldier should brace himself for a blow, but as this is Steve, he is beginning to realize that is unlikely.

The Soldier watches, transferring the ice back to the bag when it begins to drip on the floor.

"You can sit down if you want." He is wrapping the other hand now.

The Soldier drops to his knees. The sound of impact reverberates through the room and Steve's shoulders draw back.

"I meant _on_ something, you goof."

Later, he will ask JARVIS to define that word. For now, the Soldier relocates to a chair as Steve approaches the punching bag and begins to slam his fists into it. He watches. The Soldier is trained to analyze combat, to absorb any knowledge he can that will aid in annihilating an opponent in the most efficient way. A moment passes. The only sounds in the room are Steve's breathing and the impact of his hands against the bag.

"Talk to me, Buck," Steve pants. The Soldier cannot tell if it is an order or a plea.

"What—" He pauses. Where the next word should be is a gap in his vocabulary, so he skips it. "—I say?"

"Your arm." His voice is firm in that instant despite his labored breath. "Tell me about your arm."

He knows without asking that Steve means the amputation rather than the metal limb. He does not know the words to ask why Steve wants to hear it. The schematics of the arm are listed in his file and Steve must have seen amputations in the war. "This…therapy?"

" _Yes._ " He is still beating at the bag. There is a look on his face, a grimace that cannot be all physical exertion. "Yes, it is. Talk to me."

"English bad." He doesn't understand why his language skills regress this way. A side effect of the recalibration? A product of stress?

"Please, Bucky. I—ah—I need to hear it. I have to. Least I can do."

The Soldier doubts the bag's integrity will hold with the way Steve is hitting it. "They tie me down. Arm half gone. They had saw and blood all over." He can see the red gushing, pulsing in time with his heart, and then they'd pulled the skin back, digging in at his veins with clamps, pulling them away from the musculature like worms tugged out of soil. "They tie off veins." It is somewhat easier to talk in terms of the anatomical. It is the language of damage, and the Soldier speaks that well.

He wonders if Steve can hear him over the resounding smacks of wrapped knuckles against canvas. Over the sounds coming from Steve. They aren't only noises of exertion; there is something else. The sounds are low and guttural and somehow…desperate? The Soldier thinks they are desperate. How he knows that word when he cannot form a coherent sentence is beyond him.

"Cut muscle," he continues. "Tendons…pull them away." He remembers how the ligaments clung to the bone, the _yanking,_ remembers nerves like blue and pink yarn inside him. "I was sick." Someone had pulled his head to the side, forced water into his mouth to clear it. "There was saw on bone and I…I feel it go—" He moves his hand to indicate the motion, as if Steve is looking at him. "Feel it all up shoulder. I was sick, loud. They put guard in mouth. Noise bother them."

The chain that was supporting the bag snaps and the entire thing goes flying across the room. The filling is spilling out onto the floor as Steve is panting through clenched teeth, doubled over. He is moving before the Soldier can speak, disappearing into a supply closet, another bag over his shoulder when he returns.

"Go on, Buck."

This is not therapy, the Soldier thinks. This is the forcing of order through pain. It makes sense and he does not protest.

"They reach under skin, pull out muscle. Want put in—"

"Where was I?"

The Soldier must have misheard. Steve is barely intelligible, grunting and panting. He tilts his head. "Not there. You said—"

"But you saw me." A punch lands wrong and he growls, hits again. "It wasn't real, but you did. Where was I? What did I say?"

"You were—" He closes his eyes, trying to will the memory into clarity. "You hold right hand. Say, 'Don't look, almost over. It's all right. Be good?'" He cannot recall if Steve had said the last words or if it had been one of the doctors.

The second punching bag breaks much faster than the first. By the time they are on the fourth, the Soldier can see stains of blood on the wrap over Steve's knuckles, and cannot see any of the control the pain should provide. He tries to think of what a best friend would say. He thinks a best friend would speak in this situation.

His feet are wet.

The Soldier looks down. He had not properly sealed the bag of ice after opening it and it is dripping, forming a puddle in the space between his feet. His socks are damp, and as he moves them away from the water, he remembers. At least, he thinks he does. The Soldier takes the socks off, stands up.

Steve does not seem to sense the Soldier's presence beside him until the metal hand grazes his shoulder. His eyes are wide, almost wild, his face both red and somehow still pale. He struggles to catch his breath. "Bucky?"

The Soldier holds up the sock. "You make these."

Steve just stares at him.

"Not _these._ " Not this particular pair. But there was a thing Steve could do with yarn and plastic. He doesn't know the name. "You make…socks. Scarves. Yes?" The memory may be false.

The man's face is so blank that the Soldier decides he was wrong. But then he speaks. "Uh, yeah, I know how to knit."

The memory is real. The Soldier's mouth twitches. "Teach me."

"You want to learn to knit?"

"Yes." It is not a lie, because while he doesn't care if he learns, he thinks Steve would be distracted by imparting the information, and unable to cause damage to himself. Order may come from pain, but he doesn't want Steve to experience suffering, and he can see no way for harm to come from socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, speaking as someone who's had a knitting needle stabbed an inch or so into her leg (ask me about my superhuman clumsiness) you're not entirely right, Winter.
> 
> Captain America really is able to knit in comics, though I don't think it's been referenced in any books since the 1940s. My favorite instance of his knitting is in a very early comic in which he's in disguise as an old woman ([an old woman _punching Nazis in the face_](http://scans-daily.dreamwidth.org/575263.html)), which is so amazing I don't even care that the art depicts him as holding the needles in an entirely incorrect fashion.
> 
> During WWI, it became a thing to [teach hospitalized soldiers how to knit,](http://37.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_luoi01HNV91r6y3vao1_500.jpg) which carried over into the next World War. It was an occupational therapy and also gave the soldiers something to do while they were bedridden. Loads of people, male or female, young or old, knit during WWII. There are some [truly amazing propaganda posters](http://37.media.tumblr.com/dee72cb9579b4d28086b0790b0665920/tumblr_n3tzuuSKA01s7vumyo9_1280.jpg) about the importance of knitting things for soldiers.
> 
> For those on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Нет = No
> 
> Да = Yes
> 
> Идеально = Perfect


	36. Chapter 36

"Run that by me again," Stark says.

After the Soldier asked to learn the thing Steve calls knitting, they took the elevator to Stark's laboratory. They are there now, seated at one of the work benches. The Soldier has hold of Steve's right hand, bandaging his knuckles with the supplies from a medical kit he'd asked Dum-E to retrieve upon entering.

Dum-E is trying to do the same to Steve's left hand, and is mostly succeeding in sticking adhesive bandages to himself. The bandages are decorated with images of Stark's armor.

"Do you have any knitting needles?" Steve repeats. He had protested when the Soldier began disinfecting his scraped skin, arguing that it would be healed in a matter of hours. The Soldier was not dissuaded. He is used to people protesting his actions and is used to ignoring those pleas. That those people were being killed rather than aided is not a meaningful distinction in his mind.

Stark is wiping grease from his hands. "Much as I'm all up for smashing heteronormativity with a big pink repulsor blast, can't say that I do. I _might_ have some crochet hooks lying around, if that'd help?"

Steve gives him a look, and the Soldier is too immersed in first aid to decipher it.

"They're Pepper's," Stark says. "And they can do things pliers can't."

Satisfied that his right hand is properly repaired, the Soldier shifts in his seat to help Dum-E with the left. The robot abandons his post in favor of sticking the bandages to the Soldier's metal hand, and Steve sighs.

"JARVIS, where's the nearest yarn shop?" he asks. "I can take my bike—I should grab a shower first, but I can—"

"I'll go," Stark says, before the Soldier can begin preventative measures to keep Steve seated. "If I stare at my blueprints much longer they'll burn into my retinas. Besides, looks like you haven't been cleared for service."

"Bucky." Steve says it as a protest but he is smiling when the Soldier looks up. "I still need a shower."

"Counterproductive." Metal fingers tap against the dressing. "This stays dry."

Steve's hand slips around his, then into it. "I'm fine, really."

Dum-E swings over them, affixing to the Soldier's forearm. He cannot tell if it is the robot's usual fascination with the limb or an attempt to imitate the contact between Steve and the Soldier. "Counterproductive," he repeats.

The smile on Steve's face is tired but still gleaming. "I can put a pair of latex gloves on before I get wet?"

The Soldier debates it internally for a moment, watching as Dum-E's claws trace the red star on his shoulder, before he slowly nods.

*

He was wrong about the ability of knitting to cause harm, the Soldier decides. He is holding a pair of knitting needles, aluminum, nearly five millimeters in circumference. They are slender and long, pointed at one end. Off hand, the Soldier can think of over fifty maneuvers to utilize the needles as lethal weapons.

Steve does none of those maneuvers, pulling a length of yarn loose from the ball. The yarn is mostly red but there are strands of gold swirled throughout it. Stark said, upon returning, that it was something called alpaca and hand-dyed and that the colors reminded him of himself, so of course he had to get it.

"Here." Steve wraps the yarn around two of the Soldier's left fingers. The glove is back on for this task and he can feel the material rub against him before Steve is guiding the right hand through the yarn, making a slip knot and sliding it onto a needle. He sits beside the Soldier, tilting his wrists and fingers through the motions that create stitches, a method he calls "casting on." Once there are twenty five stitches, he places the needle in the Soldier's left hand, arranging his fingers the way one holds a knife.

"You'll mostly just keep that hand still," he explains. "It's the right one that makes and moves stitches."

The loose yarn winds through the right fingers. The empty needle is then placed in that hand, again as he would hold a knife.

"In through the door," Steve says, stabbing the empty needle through the first of the stitches before the Soldier can ask what door he is referring to. "Around the back." He manipulates the Soldier's fingers so loose yarn loops around the needle, above where the stitch is impaled. "Out through the window…" Turning the Soldier's wrist, the yarn is pulled through the stitch and then onto the right needle in a single, fluid motion, "and off jumps Jack." Repeating the rhyme, he guides another stitch.

The Soldier's first attempt unassisted misses the yarn entirely. On the second attempt, the yarn slips off before the stitch is formed.

"The tension's the hardest thing." Steve says, adjusting the yarn in the Soldier's grip. "You'll get it."

He does, on the third try. And the fourth. Steve's stitches were more uniform, but the Soldier is designed to learn as quickly as possible. By the twenty-fifth stitch, they are even.

"You're some sort of prodigy," Steve says. "And to think I was the one making socks for _you_. You want to learn to purl?"

"Pearl?"

"It's basically a knit stitch backward. If you do alternating rows of knits and purls, your fabric's smoother."

The Soldier nods. Steve switches the needles in his hands, teaches him a second stitch and rhyme. "Under the fence, catch the sheep. Back we come, off we leap."

There is a flicker of memory when he reaches the end of the second row, and the Soldier pauses, regarding Steve. "You had more needles." He can't recall if there were three or four, but there were more than two.

"For socks? Yeah, you can go up to five. But you learn on two. Give yourself time." He smiles. "At least half an hour, considering your ridiculous talent."

His own smile is brief, but it fully forms instead of just flickering. HYDRA would praise him when he succeeded at a task, but there is a depth to Steve's words, a connection his handlers lacked. A row knitted, a row purled. And again. The faint tap of the needles against each other, the feel of the yarn as it slides around his fingers, it alters his state of mind. He is still creating stitches, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Another couch, another set of hands holding needles.

"Someone did this," he says, hands stilling. The Soldier stares down at the needles. "A woman."

"A woman knitting in the forties?" He isn't looking at Steve, but he can still hear the grin. "You're gonna have to narrow that down a little, Buck."

"Dark hair."

"Peggy?"

He shakes his head. "Blue eyes. Older." He remembers another motion with the yarn, sets the needles down, and holds his hands out before him. "Did this, she put yarn around my hands, wrapped it back up?"

"Oh, your mom." The way Steve says it, he can almost hear the man remembering. "You hated it when she made you help wind yarn. You could barely sit still for five minutes when you were having fun, let alone—"

"Mom?" he repeats.

"Yeah. She and I would talk about knitting patterns, sometimes. You usually pretended to fall asleep. She made you this sweater once, this—"

The Soldier's face is wet and he wipes at it with his sleeves.

A hand is on his metal shoulder. "Bucky? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He is still wiping his face, but his mouth is smiling. "I remember my mom." He can see her face, every line, every expression. The Soldier does not have to work to retrieve the images; they are simply there, as if it is something programmed within him. How to load his rifle. How to pick a lock. What his mother looked like. It is innate and it is _important,_ though he can't think of why. "I remember my mom."

The hand on his shoulder pats. Steve is quiet but the Soldier can hear him grinning again. He breathes, deep and shaky and elated, and retrieves the needles, beginning another row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in the notes for the last chapter that soldiers used to be taught to knit in hospitals, but I neglected to mention [the benefits of it](http://www.cnn.com/2014/03/25/health/brain-crafting-benefits/). Knitting is repetitive motion, which is said to trigger the brain to release serotonin. It provides you with something to do and create, which can help with depression, chronic pain, stress, or just boredom. It is also said to help improve memory function.
> 
> There are two main styles of knitting: [English](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_knitting) (the style used in this chapter), in which the working yarn is held in the right hand, and [Continental](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Continental_knitting), in which the yarn is held in the left. I myself knit Continental, and actually had to teach myself English to write the descriptions in this chapter. Continental style is most popular in Germany and so during the time of the World Wars, it was definitely not something most Americans would want to learn (my grandmother learned it when she was with my grandfather stationed in Germany). Also, given that Winter's right hand is the more precise and perceiving, it seemed better to teach him the right-handed method.
> 
> Sometimes when people buy cylindrical skeins of yarn, they then wind them up into balls so it's easier to unroll the yarn during knitting. There are tools to keep it from tangling while you're making the ball, or you can wrap it around a chair or someone's hands for safekeeping.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to mention this in the notes for the previous chapter, but I forgot: [This video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqexrsr1twc) on Youtube, from a 1943 Cary Grant movie, demonstrates the whole "wartime knitting" thing I've been mentioning in these author's notes. Also it's just a hilarious sequence and Cary Grant's _intense_ knitting face at about three minutes in is exactly how I picture the Winter Soldier looking when he knits.

By the morning, the Soldier has created a little over six feet of scarf.

He did not sleep. Now that he is able to recognize the signs of exhaustion, he is able to determine when he risks collapsing from fatigue, and last night he did not risk it. The Soldier has read that the body can go up to three days without sleep before it suffers too badly, and while it is not ideal, it isn't as if he has any missions to compromise by functioning at less than full capacity. And he prefers a task that occupies his hands and mind over lying in a bed, thoughts racing while he hopes that unconsciousness may follow.

He does not do much thinking while his hands have the needles. Just breathing, creating, and occasionally remembering.

There is no pattern to the memories: the first was connected to the yarn, but those that follow drift in from nowhere, circling in his head until they spin a thin but coherent thread and he realizes the images he's seeing are memories. He remembers what he thinks is called a schoolyard, remembers pulling another boy off of Steve and having his front teeth knocked out, but _don't worry about it, Stevie, they were loose anyway._

He remembers his mother—he had called her Mama _—_ remembers that the scent of peppermint was always about her and remembers how solid her arms felt when she hugged him, even when he'd grown enough that she had to reach up to do so.

He remembers pulling another woman, a mission, close to him and driving a blade into her stomach. He remembers firing a gun and watching a face collapse in on itself when the bullet struck, brain matter spraying out of the skull. He remembers a dossier with a family inside, remembers staring at the photographs of the children and raising his head with what must have been a question in his eyes, because someone had brushed his hair back and told him he was helping to save the world.

Some of the memories have no obvious source, and others are so strange he sets them aside as hallucinations. At one point he recalls a tree _inside_ the Barnes's apartment in Brooklyn, brightly colored boxes beneath it, a smell of pine, cloves, and citrus in the air. It is a memory without logic and it cannot be real.

When it is daylight and the others are awake, he finds Stark and Steve in the kitchen and hands the scarf to the former.

"They're your colors," he says when Stark stares at him. "For you."

"Did you sleep at all?" Steve asks.

The Soldier can hear the concern in his voice, so he keeps his eyes on Stark. The look in Steve's eyes when he speaks with concern stings. " _Нет_. Is it good?"

Stark is staring at the garment now. "Note to self: HYDRA's secret weapon doubles as a knitting machine. That could be…potentially exploitable, somehow? You're sure you don't want to keep it? I mean, it's the first thing you lovingly, freaky-efficiently handcrafted. Don't want the sentimental value?"

The only things the Soldier has ever felt especially attached to are his handlers, his rifle, and Steve. He is not made to be attached to clothing: his is far too frequently bloodied, scraped, or scorched for that.

His reaction must show in his face, because Stark shrugs. "Okay, point. But you might get cold."

"I am used to cold," the Soldier says, settling into the chair beside Steve. The air goes tense and he decides that was the wrong thing to say, so he adds, "And I can make others." He wouldn't mind wearing a scarf, provided the ends are properly secured so no potential assailant can strangle him with it.

"Where'd you learn to bind off?" Steve asks.

"JARVIS." The computer hadn't been able to physically demonstrate the process of finishing a knitted edge, but there were no shortage of illustrated and video guides online. His hands tense against the counter, relax. He requires another distraction to ensure that the chaos of the day prior does not repeat.

Steve has that covered, and slides a small object against his hand. "You hungry?"

The Soldier lifts the item. It is a white paper package with brown and orange printing. VALOMILK is emblazoned across the front. "What is it?"

"You don't remember." Usually, Steve's face goes downcast at that realization, but now his smile seems to widen. "It's chocolate and marshmallow. Real popular when we were growing up, but you can hardly find 'em anywhere nowadays. When I was out—working—I was around one of the places that still sells 'em. I was gonna give it to you yesterday, but well. Yesterday—You _loved_ these things."

The Soldier continues to stare at the package. VALOMILK. It brings nothing to mind.

"I thought you said giving the Terminator sugar was a bad plan." Stark has the scarf draped over his shoulders now.

"These are different. I know the effects of these." Steve takes the package from him, slides it open. There are two small, cylindrical pieces of chocolate within, and one is offered to him. He takes it in the metal hand, because chocolate melts and that hand has no body heat.

He bites. The chocolate is not overly sweet, not like the glass of water he'd dumped sugar into last week. Marshmallow is not something he can recall but it is soft and smooth, almost liquid—

There is a sensation at his lips, viscous and sliding. The marshmallow center of the chocolate is leaking out and down his face and the Soldier swipes his tongue to try and prevent it, but only succeeds in spreading it more. The marshmallow is still running and he considers shoving the entire thing into his mouth, but he's not sure his mouth can hold it. The Soldier stiffens, right hand cupped under his chin to contain the mess, and he makes a muffled sound of confusion.

"It's okay," Steve says, still grinning. "It's meant to do that, that's the best part." He bites into the second piece of chocolate and the marshmallow is dripping down his own skin in thick white strands.

It brings to mind cyanide poisoning and the Soldier cannot understand how this is the best part of anything, but Steve is grinning and the taste is not unpleasant. To his side, the Soldier can hear Stark mutter "You're gonna be scraping ooze out of his finger joints for a week," causing him to envision the technicians who repaired his arm pulling marshmallow from it, and he cannot hold in a laugh.

He's never heard his own laughter before. It had been muffled to near silence the last time he laughed, over Bucky Barnes and the girl with the comic book, and he cannot recall doing so at any point before that. It is a strange sound, all the more so for coming through a mouthful of cream, almost a rasp but not quite so harsh. He tries to stifle the sound but then Steve is giggling and the noise is infectious, and his hands and face are covered in marshmallow but he is allowed to laugh and he can't bring himself to care.

"I've been in active war zones," Stark says, "and _this_ is the most repulsive thing I've ever seen."

"When it runs down your chin," says Steve in a voice the Soldier imagines he used to sell war bonds, "you know it's a VALOMILK."

Stark mumbles something about going to gouge out his eyes and leaves. The Soldier's hands are pressed to his face, struggling to chew while the rasp of a laugh keeps slipping out of him, _khuh-hee, khuh-hee._

"Like it?" Steve asks. "Ma banned us from eating these inside, they made such a mess." He is sucking marshmallow from his fingers and the Soldier imitates the motion, but there is so much of it and it has spread everywhere.

He lets the fingers slide from his mouth, helpless with laughter, when Steve takes a dishtowel from the sink and begins wiping at the Soldier's hands. When he licks his lips he can feel a film of marshmallow over them, and can only imagine the state of the rest of his face. "It's good."

"Glad to hear it."

"Better than the last time I had chocolate," the Soldier decides. The piece that had been placed in his mouth after a mission had been cloying. Heavy. It had created a sensation in his mouth and throat that he hadn't recognized at the time but now knows to be thirst. This is better.

Steve goes quiet again and the Soldier's laugh halts. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Buck."

"You're angry." He can't grasp why Steve won't say when he is. His handlers never hesitated to tell the Soldier exactly what he had done wrong, always stressed that he was never to do it again. But Steve acts as though he isn't. It is not the only illogical thing the Soldier has witnessed from him, but it is one of the most confusing.

"Not at you."

"HYDRA?"

A nod.

The Soldier licks his lips again. He cannot see the purpose in anger at HYDRA. The scientists who removed his arm and took his memories are likely all dead, seventy years later. Alexander Pierce had ordered the Soldier to kill Steve, and Pierce is gone as well. "Why?"

Steve stares at him.

He tilts his head to his arm, remembering the punching bag. "The ones who did this are dead." There is no point in anger at corpses, he thinks. He feels nothing toward them and he was the one with his arm cut away.

"They weren't the only ones to abuse you." Steve mutters. The towel is wiping at the Soldier's face now, and he leans into the touch as he would with HYDRA.

The Soldier remembers their touches, brushes against his hair or the occasional hand on his shoulder. He can hear their praises from when he had succeeded, and the taste of chocolate is still heavy in his mouth. "I don't think—" He cuts himself off. Talking back is not tolerated.

"Yeah?" Steve prompts.

"They didn't abuse me," he says, and while he cannot read the look in Steve's eyes, the way he goes pale lets the Soldier know he ought to have stayed silent.

There is a pause before Steve sets the towel down and takes the Soldier's cold hand into his own. "C'mon," he says, guiding him up. "Let's go talk to Sam."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [VALOMILKS](http://valomilk.com/) are a real candy that used to be quite widespread and these days are mostly found at the Cracker Barrel and nowhere else. They're unique in that the marshmallow in them never fully solidifies. And yes, "When it runs down your chin you know it's a VALOMILK" really is their slogan.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a multitude of reviews ask me about what VALOMILKS are like, and I'd never actually had one, but I live in a town with a Cracker Barrel so I picked up a couple yesterday and decided to [review them on my blog.](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/tagged/valomilk) **Warning:** the last image in the post is not safe for work. It's just me with marshmallow ooze all over my mouth, but out of context it looks pornographic.

Once there had been a mission in Siberia and the asset had missed the rendezvous.

The Soldier remembers as Steve leads him to Sam, hardly hearing the man's constant reassurances that he isn't upset with Bucky, that everything will be okay.

He thinks that the mission had been to case a location, search for plans regarding …something, and retrieve whatever was found. There were other interested parties after the same information and it was his job to dispose of them. The details of the objective are faint, but he can vividly picture the fight that had kept him from the rendezvous as well as the blood of his opponents drenching his clothing, soaking him as he'd set off for the safe house on foot.

He can remember the cold. It was not like the restful, quiet cold of the cryo-tank, but harsh and stinging. The blood on his clothing had begun to frost and his body, even so used to the ice, shivered. The asset increased his speed, ignoring the flush of fatigue that labored his movements, walked on.

The shivering had stopped the first time he tripped. His body was trembling violently and then it was on the ground, still. His left arm had begun broadcasting _danger_ to his mind and his body was immediately so burning hot that he struggled out of the coat he'd been given with sluggish, uncoordinated movements before he stood and carried on. The journey to the safe house was not quick; the asset kept finding himself turned around, kept falling, breathing in shallow gasps that didn't reach his lungs.

Someone had been waiting outside to meet him when he did arrive.

"What the hell kept you?" the man demanded. The Soldier remembers the face as Steve's, because his mind has not ceased the malfunction of placing Steve in memories he was not present for, but judging from the weapons he remembers and how the arm attached to him matches the present model, he thinks the man was Rumlow.

" _Спать,_ " the asset mumbled, which was not an answer, hardly even related, but he wasn't struck for it.

Rumlow exhaled, a hiss of breath through clenched teeth. "English, for fuck's sake," he'd said, nudged the asset's shoulder toward the safe house. His hand brushed the asset's as he did, and Rumlow froze, turning back, scrutinizing the asset's appearance.

The asset was so used to people recoiling at the temperature of his left hand, it did not occur to him that the man was responding to the _right_.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Rumlow had said. He grabbed the asset's arm, steering him forward, and there was a second in which the asset failed to recognize him as a senior officer, failed to recognize him at all, and he'd struggled. But there were orders—"Stand down, get inside, haul your ass"—and exhausted and confused as the asset had been, the commands were grounding.

"I need every blanket and towel in this shithole," the man demanded once they were inside. "Now."

It was an order again, so the asset had moved to obey it, trying to remember the meaning of the word blanket, before Rumlow had grabbed him again and guided him to a radiator. "Not you. Sit. Strip."

His fingers were numb, imprecise, struggling with his chest holster while Rumlow had torn the boots off his feet. He swore at the asset's lack of progress, batted his hands aside, and undid the strap himself before moving onto the tactical vest.

Rollins appeared in the door, arms full of fabric. "Where do you want these?"

"Just drop 'em for now—get over here and get his pants off."

There had been a pause. " _What_?"

"Either take his pants off or you'll be the one to explain to Pierce why HYDRA's most valuable weapon is dead." Rumlow grunted, struggling to slide the clothing off the asset's immobile shoulders. "Come on."

There were hands at his belt, fabric sliding off his body from either end. The asset had been told not to struggle, so he didn't. He remained motionless. Weapons had no modesty. Rumlow dropped one of the towels onto his head, rubbing at his wet hair, pulling, and the asset knew how to use a towel but he made no move to aid the man because he hadn't been told to. His body, wet from the snow, was dried, and Rumlow took the hat that had been on his own head and placed it on the asset's before wrapping the blankets around his body and pushing him, laying him back on the floor.

"Lie down on him," Rumlow said, jerking his head toward the asset.

"Fuck that."

"Hypothermia, jackass. You have to share body heat. Lie down on him."

" _Fuck_ that."

"Of the two of us," said Rumlow, "who's in charge and too good-looking to risk being mauled by malfunctioning weapons?"

"I fucking _hate_ you," Rollins said, and then his body, shaking, was pressing weight and heat against the asset's. "Christ."

"You," Rumlow tapped the asset's shoulder. "Start shivering. And you, remind me to laugh at this when he's not on the edge of death." Then he was out of the room while the asset tried to will his body into what ought to be an involuntary process.

"Cough, Soldier," Rumlow said when he returned, a mug of something steaming in his hands, and the asset did.

Rollins made a choked sound. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'turn your head,' I am _not_ —"

"Get your mind out of the gutter. And shove over. If he can cough, he can swallow." Rumlow put one hand behind the asset's head, shoving it up, and placed the mug to his lips. It burned. "This is soup. It's not harmful, it's gonna heat you up. Don't choke, and don't puke."

He could not taste the liquid being poured into his mouth because it scalded his tongue. It was hot, it was burning in comparison to his own temperature, as if he were swallowing fire, and his body tensed, sickened, wanting to reject it. But he had been ordered not to vomit, so the asset did not.

"Good," Rumlow said when the mug was empty. "Get back on him."

"Oh, come on."

"Stay there until his lips aren't blue," Rumlow ordered. "Do it without bitching and I _might_ not take pictures."

They stayed near him even when death was no longer likely, engaging in some sort of strategy exercise with cards. Poker, they called it. The asset picked up the rules from watching, shivering and silent. When the radio flickered to life, voices coming in through the static to verify their status, Rumlow's fingers trailed over the asset's face, checking temperature, as he reported the Soldier was all right.

"You're all right, aren't you, big guy?" he asked after.

The asset had nodded.

"Good. And don't ever take off a coat again without permission, got it?"

The Soldier thinks of relating that memory now, thinks that they've given him blankets and soup in the tower, and how bad could HYDRA be if it also provided those things? He thinks they were nice but he can't recall how to say it, and all the thoughts of HYDRA have reminded him that HYDRA had taught him weapons should be silent. For the majority of his waking time, the most they required of him were shakes and nods of the head, or "yes" and "no" if the person speaking to him could not see him. They called him the fist of HYDRA. A fist does not speak, it strikes where the mind directs it.

But in this tower, the Soldier tells himself, he is no longer utilized as a weapon. And humans speak.

He thinks, not for the first time, feeling Steve and Sam's eyes on him, that humanity is something best left behind in the snow.

"I don't want to go back," the Soldier says instead of relating the memory. He would like the ice again, the quiet, but he does not miss the chair and he doesn't want to sleep for years now that Steve is here. He likes being able to laugh and eat and remember faces from one day to the next. If he wished to go back to HYDRA, he might understand their concern.

But he doesn't and HYDRA hasn't come to find him, so why is Steve unhappy?

"But you miss them?" Sam asks.

The Soldier shakes his head, jaw tensing. Words are like memories: there are fragments. Some are indistinct and some are clear, but they are still only fragments and do not display the full image. " _Нет._ But he is angry." He raises his head, meets Steve's eyes. The hurt in them stings and he turns back to Sam. "I do not comprehend."

"I'm not angry at you, Bucky," Steve says. He said that in the kitchen as well. And on the walk to Sam's room. He has said it so many times today that the Soldier is beginning to think Steve _is_ angry at him.

"I do not comprehend." Steve's goals must conflict with HYDRA's or the Soldier wouldn't have been sent to kill him. Is that the reason for the hatred? Or does he think all of the Soldier's seventy years were full of experiences like the loss of his arm? That can't be the case; his file mentioned the cryo-tank.

"You don't understand why he's angry with HYDRA?" Sam asks. He has an ability to take the thoughts the Soldier can only half-verbalize and turn them into real words.

A nod. It's not quite right, as he can understand the anger at Zola, Pierce, and the scientists whose names he can't remember. But the teams that accompanied him on missions, the technicians who provided him with armor and weapons, the handlers that hadn't asked him to kill Steve—what reason is there to be angry with them? They were not unkind.

"If I can hazard a guess," Sam says, "I'd wager it has to do with the way they brainwashed you into being their tool and kept you as a prisoner of war for seventy years."

"Those people are dead." HYDRA now—they used him as a weapon because he was one. He prefers not being a weapon, but he had not been misused. They had let him sleep, kept him maintained, provided missions to occupy the blank space in his mind. They gave him everything a weapon could need, and until he met Steve and became more than an asset, it had been enough.

"The people who began the process are dead. But Bucky, brainwashing is continuous. Anyone from HYDRA you interacted with aided in it."

The Soldier thinks of the doctors who would wake him from the ice. _You're safe,_ they would say. _Everything is all right, no harm will come to you._ They attached him to the tubes that allowed his body to function, and only ever hit him if he took too long to come back to himself. "They helped."

"Right," Sam says. "They all had a hand in the process."

" _Нет_. They helped…helped me."

"Bucky." He can feel Steve's eyes on him and he does not turn his head. "Do you remember that they electrocuted you? Even if you'd done what they wanted, so they could keep you in line? That's torture."

"It's therapy."

There is a moment of deafening quiet.

"I looked it up," the Soldier says, raising his head. "On the Internet. They do it in hospitals. American ones too."

He doesn't understand the look that Sam gives him. Isn't Sam a therapist? Why should the electricity disturb him?

"In hospitals, it's used on the unconscious," Sam says finally. "And not to erase memories. It's nothing like what was done to you."

It is used, the Soldier has read, on those who will do something erratic before medications can take effect. He becomes erratic the longer he is awake and his body burns through drugs quickly. He doesn't see the disconnect. Pressing a hand to his head, the Soldier breathes, trying to force the correct words to come to mind. "I didn't like it," he says. "I don't want it back. But…they were trying to help me."

"Okay," Sam says.

" _Okay_?" Steve makes it sound like a gunshot.

"Okay, that's how he _feels_ ," Sam says, giving Steve a look the Soldier doesn't understand. "Bucky, you believe the things they did were to help you, even when they were unpleasant, right?"

The Soldier nods.

"What about the missions? The people they wanted you to assassinate? Did that help you?"

 _Yes,_ he thinks, because when there was a mission his mind wasn't buzzing and struggling, trying to think and feel and do the things a weapon shouldn't. _No,_ because he did not like the missions ever now that he knows what it is to dislike. He shakes his head, bites his lips. "Not me. Didn't help me. They were helping… those were to save the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares, I imagine the mission Winter's remembering takes place either post or mid-Iron Man 2, and they were sent into Siberia and other parts of Russia to try and see if there were any copies of Anton Vanko's arc reactor blueprints and plans to be found.
> 
> In the early stages of hypothermia, blood flow to the extremities is restricted, with the blood flow focusing on the vital organs while the body shivers to generate heat. However, when the muscles tire, there is a sudden rush of warm blood into the limbs which causes a person to feel very warm, very fast, hence why people suffering hypothermia will remove their clothes.
> 
> For those on a mobile or who otherwise can't access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Спать = Sleepy (want to sleep)
> 
> Нет = No


	39. Chapter 39

They bring him a tablet and Sam pulls up pages of information on Project Insight, formerly classified documents that had been released online alongside other HYDRA and SHIELD files. The Soldier has not seen them before; it never occurred to him to look into HYDRA's plans. He has researched its members—Pierce is dead, Rumlow is in a burn ward, and most everyone else he recalls is arrested or missing—but the organization's projects did not attract his interest once he realized his own were not among those leaked.

He doesn't think he ever cared about the reason behind his missions. It wasn't his function to concern himself with why he was fulfilling an objective, he was only meant to complete it.

Zola had developed an algorithm to determine who would be a threat to HYDRA. Twenty million targets were identified, and the helicarriers would have taken them out in a matter of seconds.

The Soldier tries to comprehend twenty million missions. It is not an objective he could have reached even if they had kept him out of the tank indefinitely. He cannot recall the exact number, but it seems to him that in seventy years he had less than fifty missions.

This Project Insight, then, was a brilliant solution. He is not surprised; HYDRA has always been brilliant. Had they succeeded, the world would have been theirs in under a minute and nothing could ever have shaken that hold. And with the helicarriers, the Soldier's skill set would have become obsolete. He would not have had to kill anyone ever again.

He thinks he would like that, and wonders what he would have been utilized for after HYDRA had the world.

"You okay, Bucky?"

Turning to face Steve, the Soldier attempts to comprehend why this information would make him not okay. It isn't that he likes the thought of twenty million dead. Remembering even one death, watching the fear and life fade from a target's eyes until they are as dull and empty as his own, it causes some nameless sensation to pervade his being, cold and wrong and nauseating.

But twenty million: it is simultaneously both too large and too small to stir much in the Soldier. His mind can't grasp the number in anything but the abstract, and yet he knows there are seven billion people alive on the planet. Looking at twenty million in relation to that is akin to pulling buckets of water from the sea. The Soldier tries to make it personal. He believes Steve wants that.

"You were on the list?"

"I was. Me, Tony, Natasha, all of us." The names are vaguely familiar, but Steve is continuing before the Soldier can put faces to them. "And millions of other people. Kids, some of them. Because they _might_ have been in HYDRA's way."

"Sacrifices must be made for the greater good," the Soldier mutters. He does not think the words; they are suddenly in his mind and on his lips.

"What was the greater good?" Sam asks, while Steve buries his face in his hands. "Did anyone ever tell you the end game?"

The Soldier nods, eager to provide a right answer, to let them see that there was more to his world beyond the suffering they seem to think comprised it. He knows the goal, remembers hearing it time and again whenever he looked at his handlers with anything other than unquestioning compliance. "Freedom. To give order so the world could be free."

"All right." Sam raises his hand and Steve, who had been about to speak, falls silent. "Freedom. Tell me, Bucky, how were people going to be free with weapons pointed at them every second of their lives?"

The logistics of freedom were never something he needed to concern himself with. The Soldier has no answer and his body tenses.

"If they wanted freedom, why did they keep you amnesiac and locked in ice?" Sam's voice is not hard but it still commands attention. "If they wouldn't give one man freedom, how could they give it to the world?"

"I wasn't a person then," the Soldier says, but his voice sounds as it used to when he was given unclear orders and repeated them, attempting to determine the objective as he spoke.

Steve's hand finds his own, skin intertwining with steel, holding tight as though the metal isn't freezing to the touch. "You were _always_ a person." He says it like a command, though the Soldier can't recall any handlers who delivered orders in that tone. Except perhaps for Captain America, but he has no clear memories of the Captain beyond the image of his suit.

He tries to believe it without question, struggles to force the conflicting data into a coherent whole. A picture forms but it makes his insides cold. "If," he begins, and his heart speeds, throat constricting. He can feel the words slipping out of reach again, and he wonders if this is some type of fight or flight mechanism or training he's forgotten. Speaking in battle would be a distraction, after all, and this situation carries the same stress as combat. "If I was…person…and HYDRA is bad…I am. Bad. I'm bad."

"Bucky, no." Sam is not like Steve. He doesn't touch. But his voice is softer now, enough that the Soldier can almost feel contact by listening to it. "You had no agency to decide whether you wanted to take part in what they were doing. You couldn't choose to refuse their orders."

"People choose." He shifts his hand, trying to slide it free of Steve's grip. Steve Rogers is a hero and the fist of his enemies should not be welcome to take comfort from him. "You said I'm person."

"It's not that simple. Ideally, yeah, everyone would be able to choose for themselves. But when people are abused and isolated, the way you were, they can lose that ability. That's what makes you different from HYDRA, all right?" Sam leans forward. His voice is more direct now, but still far from an order or reprimand. "You never chose to join them. The others made that choice. And once you were able to choose for yourself again, your first choices were to disobey and leave them. That's not a coincidence."

He tries to breathe, head down, dark strands of hair hanging in his face. Steve smoothes them back and he leans into the familiar motion. It would be soothing if he could forget his surroundings.

"I know this is a lot to deal with," Sam says. "It hasn't even been three weeks since your whole world changed. But it's important for you to understand that you can choose now, okay? You have free will here, and that's something HYDRA never gave you. Stripping a person of their agency, that's abusive, whether or not they intended to hurt you. No one will ever take that from you again, we won't let them. Do you understand?"

"I have..free will," he repeats, forcing out proper English. "Nobody will take it. HYDRA abused me?"

Sam nods and Steve says he's proud of the Soldier. He might as well be repeating coordinates for all he feels from the words, but the Soldier thinks the coordinates would trigger more sensation. Then there would be a mission, and the sense of determination in accompaniment. These are just words, syllables that form statements he almost understands. Maybe if he repeats them enough they will become true.

Or maybe he can will himself into believing because Steve agrees with these words. Steve is always honest, so it follows that he is always right. Aligning his beliefs with Steve's should not be so difficult; Barnes must have agreed with the man to follow him into battles.

"That's right. You can choose." Sam sits back, smiles. "So what do you choose to do now, then?"

"Sleep," the Soldier says, aware of how heavy his body has become. He then chooses to have Steve lead him back to the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize Winter's worldview at the end of this chapter is still majorly and likely noticeably screwed up, but from the research I've done into rescuing people from cults and other brainwashing type organizations, the process of breaking down that mindset is very slow. In fact, if one attempts to rush it, they can actually risk driving the victim back to their abusers. So this is more Steve and Sam letting him digest a load of new information than Steve and Sam assuming he's got the message they've relayed.
> 
> Also, I'm really glad that people liked the flashback last chapter, because as Winter continues to regain memories, there are likely more of those that will happen.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter about Tony trying to help Winter experience catharsis through music. I'm not sure where that idea came from, but it wouldn't leave my head until I wrote it. I've tried to make it as accessible as possible and still relatable even if you aren't familiar with the genres and musicians that come up, and tried to put the focus on the character experiences rather than the references. I hope I've succeeded.

He manages two hours of sleep before his dreams turn to blood and sparks. He lies in the bed, waiting for the flashes of red and white to fade from his vision, body tensed as though a current has just passed through it, for another ten minutes or so before he gets up. It isn't much later that Stark finds him.

"I've been thinking," the man says, "and it's occurred to me that we've all been overlooking the most tragic part of your situation."

"Brainwashing?" the Soldier asks. Steve and Sam seem to consider that very tragic. But they haven't been overlooking it, so there must be some new tragedy that Stark has discovered. He doubts he has the emotional capacity to deal with any other indignities, but the Soldier has the sense that his lack of reaction will only cause further stress to the others. Perhaps he should have remained in bed.

"That's secondary, Robocop. Are you aware that you slept through the dawn of rock?"

The Soldier is almost certain that rocks existed in the forties. "What?"

"Rock music. They froze you in, what, 1945? You didn't even make it to rhythm and blues, did you? I could cry on your behalf. I won't, but I could."

Music. If he strains his mind, the Soldier can see dance halls, hear words like Lindy Hop and East Coast Swing. He remembers the motions that constitute dancing, though he has yet to recall any practical use for that skill set. The Soldier cannot bring any music to mind, but it strikes him as equally pointless. "I am sufficient."

"Like hell you're sufficient. You're a tragedy." Stark is guiding him, looking as enthused as he did when he scanned the Soldier's arm. "Listen, you're a punk rocker. I can see it in your hair. But I'm not about throw the Sex Pistols at you and go on my merry way. There's a whole _history_ you have to appreciate to get the most out of it."

The Soldier understands neither punk rocker nor Sex Pistols. What he does understand is that Stark is not one to be dissuaded, so he allows himself to be led to a room full of speakers, trying to absorb strange terms such as "rockabilly" and "Brit invasion." The first songs he hears are almost familiar, and he thinks the dances he recalls could accompany music from Chuck Berry and Ray Charles and perhaps Elvis Presley.

But then there are songs such as "Paint it Black" and "Strawberry Fields Forever" and the music becomes alien to anything he may have once known. The Soldier is unable to react to any of the sounds around him—he never had opinions as an asset about anything, but especially not music as no effort was made to expose him to it—so instead he watches Stark. The man is so animated, even by his own standards, so full of passion for this seemingly useless medium. It makes the Soldier smile, which Stark takes as enthusiasm, rambling even faster.

Did Barnes react to anything this way? Did he feel for dancing what Stark feels for rock?

It must be a pleasurable sensation, passion. It must be overwhelming, to give such fervor to such inconsequential things. The Soldier feels, observing the other man's response to the music, as if he is thirsty and his companion is drinking water. He desires the sensation. Perhaps he should attempt dancing to see if it sparks passion within him still.

"All right," Stark says, once they have progressed through doo wop, psychedelic, pop rock, and a half dozen other distinctions the Soldier nearly grasps, "and this is what the previous thirty years or so of innovation and experimentation was leading to. Buddy Holly, The Kinks, Hendrix, all of them, just setting the stage for AC/DC. Who are, objectively, the greatest rock group of all time."

The song begins with a burst of noise that the Soldier initially takes for static. It occurs to him that this is the music and he ponders if loudest means greatest in terms of rock, but then the lyrics begin and he is preoccupied. The Soldier had been trained to memorize all radio broadcasts, so that any orders or information transmitted would not be lost or overlooked. He realizes the training need not be utilized in this exercise, but it isn't something he can shut off. He is committing the words to memory when one phrase gives him pause.

 _Highway to hell._ That word again. "What is hell?"

"Uh." Stark blinks, pulled away from the music. "Either eternal damnation or one seriously impressive party, depending on whose definition you get."

So he had asked _Who the eternal damnation is Bucky?_ It still makes no sense. He frowns, resolving to research idioms in the English language later, and stiffens when there is an unexpected voice behind him.

"I thought we were going to lunch." It is Pepper, whom he did not hear enter over the rock. She eyes Stark. "Please tell me you're not showing off your music collection to a captive audience again."

"It's educational," the man protests. "It might even constitute community service."

Pepper sighs, but the resignation doesn't show in her eyes. "Couldn't you introduce him to something a little more upbeat?"

"The idea here's musical catharsis, honey. I could have gone the obvious route and introduced him to Smashing Pumpkins, but I have restraint."

"And _we_ have a reservation we're about to be late for." She links her arm with Stark's.

"I knew that," Stark says as she steers him toward the door. "I so knew that. I was testing _you_. Hey, Daft Punk." He glances back at the Soldier. "You're welcome to play anything, but just know that if it turns out you have bad taste, I am morally obligated to mock you."

Pepper swats his shoulder. "Ignore him, Bucky. He's a snob."

They are disappearing into the hallway as Stark says, "I'm a _connoisseur._ "

"JARVIS?" the Soldier asks.

**YES, SERGEANT BARNES?**

"What is upbeat?"

He was asking for a definition, but the answer he receives is **POP, GENERALLY SPEAKING.**

"Pop?" Soda pop comes to mind, but what would that have to do with anything?

**POP MUSIC IS AN ELECTIC GENRE DERIVED FROM ROCK AND ROLL. IT IS CONSIDERED PLEASURABLE TO LISTEN TO WITH MASS AUDIENCE APPEAL.**

The Soldier wonders what the point of music that is not pleasurable to listen to would be, before wondering what the point is of music at all. "Oh."

 **WOULD YOU LIKE TO VIEW MR. STARK'S SELECTION OF POP MUSIC?** The computer screen on the wall switches from information on "Highway to Hell" to an alphabetized list. The Soldier taps the first name his hand lands on, and then a song at random from the next list that appears.

It begins with a beat that is not so different from rock, but the melody starts and the Soldier smiles. His mind is immediately committing the words to memory— _I got a new life, you would hardly recognize me_ —but there is something else happening in his head, something he would struggle to define were he not preoccupied with experiencing it. It is not, he thinks, the passion he saw in Stark because it is not nearly so intense, but it is a form of pleasure. Enjoyment?

He sits, listening. "JARVIS?" the Soldier asks when the song ends.

**YES, SERGEANT BARNES?**

"Could you play that again?"

By the fourth play through of the song, he no longer needs to ask JARVIS to repeat it. The Soldier remains still, eyes shut.

There is contentment in listening, in knowing what will come next, and he finds that no matter how many times he hears it, the Soldier is still able to lose himself in the music. The half-formed memories, restlessness, worry over Steve, and confusion regarding HYDRA, all of it is subdued. For once, he is not torn between an asset and a person. He simply _is._

"Ace of Base, huh?" Stark asks, and the Soldier opens his eyes. He does not know if that is the name of the band or of the song; he hadn't bothered to look.

Stark, examining the computer screen, whistles. "You just listened to the same song forty-seven times in a row."

The Soldier nods.

"Why?"

"I know I like it." And the sensation of liking is one he wants to feel again and again.

"Can't argue with that." Stark shrugs. "Though, for everyone else's sanity, you might want to learn to like headphones too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lindy Hop and East Coast Swing are both styles of swing dancing that would have been popular in Bucky's day.
> 
> Smashing Pumpkins is the "obvious route" for Winter to experience catharsis through music in Tony's mind because of their song "[Bullet with Butterfly Wings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-r-V0uK4u0)," which contains the famous lyric "despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage." I nearly had him mention Rage Against the Machine rather than Smashing Pumpkins, but that seemed a bit too on the nose.
> 
> When the brain listens to music, it predicts where the melody will go next. If it predicts correctly, the brain is then flooded with dopamine, which causes a pleasurable reaction. Because pop music tends to be predictable (or at least in comparison to some other genres), this sensation is especially true for pop music.
> 
> The song Winter likes is "[The Sign](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DNPjeIamsck)" by Ace of Base. There's no particular reason I chose that song, other than that it's ridiculously catchy and Ace of Base is a band name toward the top of the alphabet. I suppose some of the lyrics might appeal to him as well, but that wasn't a criteria in choosing it.
> 
> I very nearly chose the band Aqua for that same alphabetical reason, and would have gone with their hit "[Barbie Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyhrYis509A)" because it's insanely catchy, but there is no way that wouldn't have been ridiculously jarring and I don't think Winter would enjoy that song much. Lyrics like "Make me walk/make me talk/do whatever you please/I can act like a star/I can beg on my knees" are not things I imagine going over well with him.


	41. Chapter 41

Stark asks if the Soldier has eaten anything other than the "highly suggestive marshmallow glop" today and the answer is no, so the Soldier relocates to the kitchen of the tower. When he arrives, Steve is there. He rarely finds himself alone in the common areas of this building and he is not sure if that is by design—if JARVIS alerts the others to his presence and they do not want him unescorted—or coincidence. There is a not unpleasant noise when he enters the room and it isn't until Steve looks up at him and smiles that the Soldier realizes the sound is called humming and it is coming from his own throat.

"Been catching up on music history?" Steve asks.

That Steve has also slept through most of the century is something the Soldier has known but has not thought to focus on before now. There is very little he can remember of his life, but there is even less he can remember that does not include either Steve or a facsimile thereof. For him, the man is as ever present as mission assignments or the cold, and rarely does the Soldier think of the world outside of his own experiences. Steve has always been a constant, self-assured and reassuring.

But objectively, Steve is another man out of time. Sitting down, the Soldier mulls over this realization. Very few of the ideals or events Barnes shared with Steve remain in his memory, but perhaps they can share being lost. Something flutters in his chest at the thought and the Soldier tries to subdue it. He cannot envision Steve being ever truly lost no matter how much of the world slips by him. The man is too alive for that.

"Did Stark teach you about music too?" the Soldier asks.

"He tried." Steve sighs, but he is also smiling. "I told him I'd already looked into it, but he insisted I had to learn the _right_ way. And then he declared me a lost cause because I liked Journey more than AC/DC."

The abrasions to Steve's hands have healed. He had not thought to check the rate of recovery earlier in the day, between the VALOMILK and the therapy session, but the Soldier imagines that the healing had occurred before that point. He smiles until he thinks of the gunshots and stab wounds from the helicarrier and wonders how long those took to heal.

"Are you hungry?"

The Soldier nods because he has researched how often the body needs food and enough time has passed since his last substantial meal for him to require more. He has no sense of appetite. Three-quarters of a century fed intravenously has destroyed that sensation; he can feel the pain of starvation, but not the longing for food.

"Okay." Steve pushes his chair back. "What do you want?"

"Something I like." If Sam were here, the Soldier thinks he would be made to choose. They keep impressing the notion of autonomy onto him, the ability to think critically for himself. It isn't that he is incapable or that he necessarily rejects the notion, but to go from no options to every choice is dizzying. There appears to be an infinite amount of foodstuffs in the tower, with equally vast combinations, and he has no desire to be in charge of what his body intakes on top of everything else.

Besides, Steve knows the things that he likes better than he does, so it isn't as if the selection will be unpleasant.

"You know, you're lucky you tried modern food here." Steve opens the refrigerator, spilling yellow light over the floor tiles. Cold and light: the combination is incongruous and the Soldier cannot look away. "I mean, don't get me wrong, there's more variety these days, but a lot of it tastes kind of metallic. Or like chemicals. At least, compared to what we're used to. But the stuff Pepper buys doesn't have that—I don't know if it's a quality issue or what."

The Soldier does not remember the taste of the food he was used to. His knowledge of both the past and the present are the minimal amount needed to function, informed by secondhand sources rather than lived experience. He and Steve cannot really be lost together if one of them can remember the first stretch of the journey while the other might as well have wandered in halfway through.

He watches, brows knit, trying to will memories to the surface. They must have eaten together in trenches or in Brooklyn—did Steve cook or had Barnes?—but he cannot pull together any coherent scenes. A scent of garlic, a hand stinging where it had brushed against a hot pan, a chest like a refrigerator but with a block of ice inside—all of it flashes in his mind, but he has no context.

A plate is placed in front of him and the Soldier is drawn back to the present, glancing down at a sandwich.

"It's ham," Steve says, sitting again. "I don't know if you remember, but that's your favorite."

People have so many favorite things. What purpose is there to a preferred type of dead flesh? It takes the Soldier a moment to remember he is meant to say "thank you." Etiquette was never a part of his programming.

He takes a bite and immediately understands why this was Barnes's favorite.

The Soldier is smiling then, and Steve is smiling. It is symbiotic and a desire deep within him is tapped: he wants to smile more, have more of the correct reactions, in order to see the happiness in Steve. Is this friendship or an imprint designed to ensure he pleases his handlers?

"Hey, Bomb Pop." Stark walks in, giving Steve a glance before his focus returns to typing on the screen of his phone. He leans against the table beside the Soldier and nods to him. "Lady Gaga. I have news."

For once, it is Steve with the blank expression while the Soldier's mind prickles on the edge of a memory. There was something familiar in that statement, something beyond the word "bomb."

"Why's Bucky Lady Gaga?" Steve asks, and the memory slides into place.

"Poker Face," the Soldier says, and the other men stare at him.

"So you did listen to more than one song when I left? That's good. I'm starting to think my punk rock prediction was off, but at least—"

A shake of the head. " _Нет._ I heard it before. On a mission."

After a mission, to be accurate. The mission had been in Gaza, but they crossed the border into Israel to await extraction. The safe house had been small, hot. The other team members slipped in and out of the bathroom to dig shrapnel from their skin.

The asset sat in a corner, mask off. His hair was slick with sweat, face caked with drying blood. A blow to the face had made his nose bleed and no one had told him to wipe away the mess, so he hadn't. No one approached him. They kept less of a distance before missions, allowing themselves to brush up against him on transports or at the base. The contact triggered something within him, an instinct to protect those who provided it so long as the protection did not compromise the mission.

In the moments when the asset slipped up and allowed himself to think, he thought the others were aware of that instinct.

But once a mission ended, no one approached him unless they were guiding him to the next destination or assessing for injuries. It was one thing to make sure a trap was in perfect working order before laying it. It was another to linger near the trap once it was set.

There was a radio within the safe house, covered in dust and barely functioning. Of the few stations it received clearly, only one broadcast anything in English. The asset sat rapt with attention, committing the messages to memory. Over the course of a half hour, it transmitted one particular message five times, occasionally interrupted by others. The message came in the form of music and it sounded synthetic, as if the voice and instruments were somehow automated. It was fast and made no sense, though he had committed to memory easily enough.

The fifth transmission of the message was interrupted when Rumlow grabbed hold of the radio and lifted it, tearing the plug from the socket in the process. He must have found the message in some way unfavorable, and appeared to be contemplating throwing the machine against the wall before the bathroom door opened.

Rollins stepped into the room. He had taken shrapnel to the face and there were stitches in his skin now where there had previously been blood and debris. Rumlow exhaled, set the radio down, and limped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The asset was not sure if the man had taken a bullet to the leg, or shrapnel. It was not his place to ask. Not his place to think to ask.

Minutes passed with the only sound being the faint shuffle of cards, before another team member, Murphy, began humming the tune of the repeated message.

"Don't." Anderson, the youngest team member—the asset knew this because Rumlow had addressed him as "rookie" before—set his cards down on the table. "Don't you dare."

"I can't help it," Murphy protested. "It's in my head."

"Think a concussion would help?" Rollins asked.

"It's _catchy._ "

"It's _terrible._ " Anderson shook his head. "It's—'bluffin' with my muffin'? What does that even—why— _what_?"

He was asking for clarification. The asset could not parse the meaning of the message, so he simply repeated the next line. Perhaps that would suffice. "I'm not lying, I'm just stunning with my love glue gunning."

Things went very quiet. They collectively turned, staring at the asset. He couldn't be sure, because he couldn't remember enough for certainty, but he thought the last time anyone had looked at him with eyes that wide and faces that blank, he'd been carrying a severed head. Why he'd had a severed head, the asset had no idea.

"What," said Murphy, with none of the upward inflection that indicated a question.

"I'm not lying, I'm just stunning with my love glue gunning," the asset repeated. There was no comprehension in their eyes, so he continued. "Just like a chick in the casino, take your bank before I—"

"We broke him," Anderson said. "We broke the _Winter Soldier_ with terrible music."

"Breathe, rookie." It was Rollins speaking, though he'd looked as dumbfounded as the rest of them. "The Soldier memorizes radio transmissions. No one must have cared to differentiate between that and any other broadcast. It all gets wiped anyway, right?"

There was a pause in which they tore their eyes away from the asset to look at each other, before simultaneously turning back to him. "Do the whole thing," Murphy said.

"Mum mum mum mah," the asset said.

"Wait, wait." It was Rollins speaking. He outranked Murphy, so the asset fell silent. "Sing it."

The asset did not sing. It had never been necessary and he was not sure how, but it was an order, so he forced his voice to do it. "I want to hold them like they do in Texas please. Fold them let them hit me raise it baby stay with me I love it." His voice was flat in comparison to the transmission's, ugly, and it ached in his already dry throat, but the asset continued.

At first, they listened in silence. The disbelief was still on their faces but some quality of it had shifted. By the time he was stammering "P-p-p-poker face, p-p-poker face," there was laughter.

He was not yet midway through the message when the bathroom door flew open and Rumlow stalked out. "Whoever's imitating a dying cat, I will blow your head off—"

His eyes met the asset's and he fell silent.

The asset had gone similarly quiet. He had not received a direct order to cease, but the senior officer had not liked the noise so he halted, awaiting further instruction.

Rumlow blinked, shook his head. Limping to the table, he took his chair, shifting it to face the asset, and sat down. "I didn't say stop."

The asset exhaled, picking up midsentence where he had paused. "—and baby when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun."

It took them three minutes to stop laughing when he was through relaying the message. The asset counted the seconds.

"Someone teach him 'Take On Me'," Rollins had said.

The Soldier shakes his head. The memory makes his face hot.

"A mission," Stark repeats. "Please tell me this mission involved body glitter and club kids."

"What is glitter?"

"You said you had news?" Steve is addressing Stark, but his eyes are on the Soldier.

"A certain itsy bitsy spider just texted me." Stark slides the phone into his pocket. "She and Barton apparently need to place to lie low, so I said they were welcome to roost here."

"Natasha?" Steve's brows draw together as the Soldier tries to place that name. "I thought she was trying to disappear. This place isn't exactly subtle, no offense."

Stark shrugs. "Well, the files she leaked blew all of Barton's covers, so I'm guessing that has something to do with it. Point being, I'm now running a halfway house for superheroes. I mean, not that I mind, but hey." He glances to the Soldier. "Try not to get homicidal on them, would you? I'd hate to be viewed as inhospitable."

"I don't kill outside of missions."

"She was a mission, Buck." Steve sighs. "Maybe we should relocate for a bit, just to be safe. We could—"

"Safe?" Stark repeats. "I'm Iron Man. You're Captain America. They're both practically ninja and we've got a guy with wings. I think we can handle this, Cap. Also? Might be nice to have a guy with brainwashing experience around for a bit."

Steve appears to consider it, nods. "Point."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iceboxes began to be phased out by refrigerators in the mid-1930s, so I imagine Bucky would have had one in his home for at least part of his childhood.
> 
> Bomb pops are red, white, and blue popsicles that may or may not be sold outside of the US. I'm not actually sure.
> 
> Bucky earned the Lady Gaga nickname by 1) liking pop music and 2) being stoic and dark and generally everything Gaga isn't.
> 
> "[Poker Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bESGLojNYSo)" was quite popular on the radios in Israel when it was first released there. It peaked as the second most popular song on the Israeli Airplay Chart for a time.
> 
> I actually intended, when I first had the idea for this flashback, for it to be kind of a cute moment but then "cute" turned into "dehumanizing jackassery" because I am incapable of making happy things.
> 
> "[Take On Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djV11Xbc914)" is a 1986 song by the group a-ha with a very famous music video. And a lot of high notes.


	42. Chapter 42

Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff were practically ninja, Stark had said.

The word was unfamiliar to the Soldier, so while Steve went to consult with Sam regarding the new arrivals and how to best prepare for them, the Soldier slipped back to his room to gather intel. According to Wikipedia, ninja were mercenaries in feudal Japan. Either cryostasis is a much older process than the Soldier realized, or the word "ninja" in relation to Barton and Romanoff has a different meaning.

 _In popular culture,_ he reads, _depictions of ninja are often fantastically exaggerated. Stylized ninja move in a stealthy fashion and wear dark masks._ By that definition, he is a ninja. Has the term evolved to apply to any mercenary, or is there further context he is missing? He scans the lengthy record of films and novels pertaining to ninja, but they are likely to fall under the category of things the Soldier is not "ready for." Media about assassins is something he doubts his caretakers would like him to be exposed to.

He tries to gain context by reading about the history of Japan instead. At first the learning goes without incident, but then he reaches World War II. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. There is a rush of hatred tearing through his nausea, teeth grinding with his tongue caught between them. The taste of iron floods his mouth. _American butchers,_ he cannot help but think. The words must come from HYDRA, but he cannot place the specific source. _Imperialist murderers._

He navigates away from that article and discovers an entry on Unit 731. His hands will not move to close the page and there are trails of tears down his face.

JARVIS, who the Soldier believes can monitor his heart rate, shuts the browser window and plays the song by Ace of Base until his breathing levels.

The next afternoon, when Barton and Romanoff arrive at the tower, they are not wearing dark masks or moving in a stealthy fashion.

The Soldier is there with the others when they arrive. Sam had suggested it the night prior, when they were all together at the table and eating something Stark had called lo mein out of white cartons. It was mostly comprised of noodles and was eaten with a pair of pointed sticks. Steve had been teaching the Soldier how to hold them when Sam spoke and the sticks had slipped from Steve's hands.

"Are you sure?" Steve had asked. "Wouldn't it better to ease him into—"

"We'll be prepared for it and we'll know how he handles it straight off the bat. The longer we wait, the higher the chance he could run into one of them by mistake."

So he is waiting with Sam and Steve for their arrival. Barton and Romanoff will be delivered by a helicopter Stark has sent for them, so they are waiting on the same floor as the hanger. They are in the Avengers Tower. The year is 2014. It has been three weeks since he left HYDRA and he never has to go back. He is with friends. He no longer has missions. His name is Bucky Barnes. He is ninety-eight years old.

Sam had made the Soldier recite these facts. He took it for a status report, but Sam calls it a reality grounding exercise and says it is to keep the Soldier anchored in the present no matter what the sight of Romanoff may spark in him. He is to repeat it if he feels the need to terminate her. He is to repeat it if he feels confused or uneasy. Sam and Steve are to keep him in the present and lead him away if he becomes violent. Stark is to defend Romanoff and Barton.

The Soldier notes the newcomers' injuries before anything else. It would be the first thing he noticed even if he were not trained to seek out weakness, because the wounds are numerous and obvious. Barton's eyes are blackened, his face bruised, scraped, and held together with butterfly bandages. One of his wrists is splinted; the opposite arm is in a sling. He favors his left side when he walks. There is a quiver of arrows and a bow slung across his back and while the Soldier cannot see any other weapons on his person, he is sure there are more from what little he knows of the man.

Romanoff is less visibly damaged, but her lip is split and her gait is off just enough for the Soldier's gaze to drop to her ankles. The legs of her pants conceal the joints, but he is sure the right ankle is bandaged. There is bruising on her neck, mostly concealed by golden, wavy hair that just brushes her shoulders. The Soldier is staring and waiting for the spark of memory Sam and Steve are so afraid of, but nothing comes. She reminds him of nothing at all.

"What _happened_?" Stark asks, and Barton sinks into one of the chairs farthest from the Soldier. He breathes in a way that speaks of injury, of a moan he won't let slip out.

"Reconnaissance in Kiev," he says. "And then my cover—all my covers—were online and SHIELD wasn't answering calls, and—"

"I meant Goldilocks." Stark's hand stretches toward Romanoff's hair and she twists his wrist. She could easily snap the bones, but she does not. " _What_? I thought women like it when you notice new hairstyles—"

"There are about as many prices on my head in the Ukraine as there are in Russia. And since my face has been on every global news network as of late, I needed to distract from it." Her body is slim but she sinks into the chair beside Barton as if there is great heaviness to her, deep within her bones. Her eyes are tired but there is something more to them, something clever. The Soldier thinks of foxes, though he cannot bring an image of a fox to mind beyond the color red. This woman is not red, but it seems to suit her.

"I just had to fight my way out of a torture chamber with nothing but a medical tray and a syringe," she adds. "So whatever blonde puns you're about to crack can wait until I won't break your jaw for saying them."

"Hey," Stark puts a hand to his heart. "First of all, my humor's much more highbrow than that."

Steve, who is holding the Soldier's hand, makes a choking noise.

"Heckling from the peanut gallery is not welcome, thank you very much. Secondly, it's a good look on you. I mean, they're all good looks. Does your hair ever stay the same for more than a month? You're like a Deluxe Stylin' Head Barbie. But it's nice. And they say gentlemen prefer blondes."

"Well then." Barton's head is leaning back against the top of the chair as if he is asleep. He is hardly audible. "In that case, Nat, you shouldn't have to worry about Stark ogling you anymore."

Romanoff and Barton are laughing together as Stark protests that he was dying, and dying men are allowed to ogle. The Soldier makes a note to look up the definition of ogle later.

Barton, Stark had said, was brainwashed, but the Soldier can see no traces of the processes that made him an asset in this battered man. It isn't the laughter that keeps him from envisioning it; the Soldier has laughed more than once in his time here. Yet he has never joked, never thought to deliberately initiate amusement in others. Even now that the concept is in his mind—the joke seems to have lifted some of the weight from Romanoff, and to do the same to Steve would be very good—he has no idea of how to do so. Whatever has been done to Barton, he seems leagues above in recovery, so far forward that the Soldier cannot even glimpse the path he took.

There are eyes on him when the laughter stops; the Soldier feels the gaze and raises his head to find Barton looking at him. The bruising around the man's eyes prevents him from reading into them as he had with Romanoff's. "Hello," Barton says. His voice is soft as Steve's had been on the night in Brooklyn when the Soldier knocked him unconscious.

"Hello," the Soldier says.

"Clint Barton."

"I'm Bucky Barnes." He isn't yet—he maybe never will be—but if he introduces himself as the Winter Soldier, he thinks Steve may panic or sigh and he'd rather avoid that. It isn't as if the Soldier was meant to introduce himself as such anyway; the asset was not designed to identify with a name.

He means to stop there, but the repetition Sam had taught him earlier is still fresh in his mind and it is so similar to the status reports his handlers would demand that he cannot keep from reciting the rest. "I'm ninety-eight. I am in the Avengers Tower. I'm with friends. It is 2014. I no longer have missions. I have been away from HYDRA for three weeks and I never have to go back."

There is a rush of heat to his face as there had been yesterday when he remembered the recitation of the message that in actuality was just a song. This is not dissimilar and he braces himself for the laughter. Laughing shouldn't bother him. He prefers it when Steve laughs and HYDRA's amusement was better than their electricity.

But the heat does not leave his skin.

It takes fifteen seconds to realize there will be no laughter. Steve brushes his hair back and asks if he needs to leave the room for a while. The Soldier is about to say yes when Barton speaks.

"You never have to go back."

It is not a flat repetition. Nor is it a mockery. The Soldier can hear in the man's voice what he could not see in his eyes: Barton _has_ been taken apart and reshuffled in a new order pleasing to whatever master he was made to serve.

He meets Barton's gaze again. Of everyone in the room, they are the most like strangers to each other, and yet there is a comforting familiarity in the newcomer and something in Barton's face that says he not only believes the words he's spoken, but that he wants the Soldier to believe them as well.

"I never have to go back," he says.

Barton nods, and if only for that instant, the Soldier thinks it true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unit 731 was a biological and chemical warfare research and development unit of the Japanese army in WWII that experimented on Chinese prisoners. There were many experiments and all of them horrible beyond words (do not look it up unless you have a strong stomach and aren't easily upset), but the ones especially likely to trigger Winter would be limb amputation and deliberately inflicting frostbite on the prisoners. There's also a terrifying and upsetting Chinese movie on the subject, called _The Men Behind the Sun._ When the film was made, China had no special effects industry to speak of, so when they needed to show body parts maimed or frozen, they had the actors hold onto real body parts.
> 
> The All Dolled Up Deluxe Stylin' Head Barbie is basically a giant plastic Barbie head that children can then apply makeup to and style the hair. Some versions also include a hand so there can be nail-painting.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter briefly mentions torture and animal cruelty.

Barton has an archer's hands.

He carries a folding recurve bow on his back and the Soldier knows that, were he to pick it up, his shots would be as flawless as they were with his rifle. He has no memory of holding a recurve bow, nor a longbow nor a compound bow—if he strains, he remembers a crossbow—but the knowledge is there without the memory. He knows that the metal hand would close around bow while the right hand would draw the arrow, and he knows that the shot would be perfect. But his hands are not an archer's.

Barton's hands are bruised and bandaged on some fingertips, but even with the damage the Soldier can see the skill in every movement. He can picture a bow and arrow in those hands as easily as he can envision a pencil in Steve's, or a wrench in Stark's. Archer's hands, artist's hands, mechanic's hands.

He sees a rifle in his own mismatched hands and perhaps powder residue and blood.

His sniper's hands—weapon's hands—are for destruction and efficiency and he looks away from them, focusing again on Barton's.

The archer does not miss his gaze. "Lost some nails," he says, tapping at the bandages, but no one _loses_ fingernails. They were either torn out with pliers or had thin, flat objects worried beneath them until they were pried up and away. The Soldier thinks the second method is more effective because it is slower and the visual is more distressing to the target.

He also thinks that the correct response to hearing a person has been tortured is likely not to wonder about the techniques used. "I'm…sorry?"

Barton shrugs, and the shoulder in a sling seizes up as he does. "It looks bad. I've been through worse."

The others have left the room, though the Soldier can hear that Steve, Stark, and Sam are lingering nearby. He cannot hear Romanoff, and he believes that is due to skill in stealth on her part rather than a lack of proximity. His mind drifts again to foxes and red.

Worse, Barton says. The Soldier imagines he means the brainwashing, because that would seem to be the entire point of why everyone else has left them alone in this room. To talk about shared experiences. The Soldier nearly asks how long Barton was with the people who repurposed his mind. It can't have been seventy years; Barton is too human for that. Maybe fifty.

Instead, he says "You're an archer."

Barton smiles—he does it so naturally—and takes the bow from his back, unfolding it. The tension of the bow as he does must place strain on his body, as he winces, but even with the pain his enthusiasm is visible. "Ever used one, or did they just give you guns?"

The Soldier makes an ambiguous sound, positioning his arms and drawing back the string as though he has an arrow notched.

"Okay, you've definitely used one." Barton's hands ghost over the Soldier's limbs, making minute adjustments, but there does not seem to be much to adjust. The Soldier smiles, slowly moving the string back to its original, un-drawn position. He moves to return the bow to the archer, but Barton is reaching into the quiver on his back, pulling out an arrow. "Check this out."

The arrow has no point. Rather, it ends in a long, grooved cylinder. Staring, not touching, the Soldier tries to sort out its purpose.

"Boomerang arrow," Barton says. "It comes back to you in the end."

It is not that he cannot see the use in a boomerang. An arrow that behaves as a boomerang, however, would seem to have as many disadvantages as any benefits it could provide. "Why do you need an arrow that returns after you shoot it?"

The light in Barton's eyes dims just a bit. "Because…boomerangs," he says.

"Were you HYDRA's?" the Soldier asks, because Barton had mentioned SHIELD. His mind shuffles through other organizations he knows, though considering the lengths of time he would spend out of the field, it is possible all his guesses are outdated. "Or KGB? MI6?"

"What do you know about the Chitauri invasion?" Barton asks. He replaces the arrow in the quiver, the motion heavier than it was when he retrieved it.

"2012 incursion by the Chitauri forces into New York City," the Soldier recites. "Their army entered Earth via a wormhole opened by the Asgardian Loki. Human defenses were led by the SHIELD team known as the Avengers, who redirected a nuclear missile into the wormhole before closing it. Estimated cost of damages to New York City, one hundred sixty billion USD. Estimated causalities in the thousands."

Though he is no longer exerting himself physically, Barton is wincing again. "Right. Do you know how Loki created the wormhole?"

Neither the information HYDRA had given him on the incident nor his own research had gone into those specifics. The Soldier shakes his head.

"SHIELD, see, was researching an Asgardian artifact called the Tesseract. Unlimited energy source. HYDRA used it to power weapons."

The Soldier sees a flash of blue light. He remembers hanging from the side of a train and he forces his hands not to tense for fear of breaking the bow he still holds.

"Loki used the Tesseract to power a wormhole generator," Barton continues. "And when he showed up to take it, he had a scepter from the Chitauri. It let him control people, take over their minds." He pauses. "And I was one of the ones he got."

The Soldier's brow furrows as he considers the logistics. The first publically known appearance of Asgardians on Earth was in 2011. Assuming that Loki arrived on Earth with the scepter then, that would mean Barton was the Asgardian's asset for only a year. No, it must have been longer than that. Surely there were other appearances by the Asgardians that weren't released. The Tessaract was on Earth at least as far back as the 1940s. "How long were you under his power?"

"Three days."

"Что?" Days? No, he must mean decades. Three decades. He must.

"Three days," Barton repeats. "I know, it's not even a drop in the bucket compared to what you've gone through. I get that. But…when I close my eyes, those days are all I can see. Whenever I sleep, it's like being there all over again."

Three days. This is the man whose life experiences are the most similar to the Soldier's. Three days. If the Soldier looks only at his waking times with HYDRA, it still amounts to months. Possibly years. Even when he was an asset, silent and unthinking, spoken to only to communicate objectives and check statuses, the Soldier thinks he never felt as alone as he does in this moment.

"Hey." Barton's hand is on his shoulder. "Look, I'm not gonna patronize you and say it's okay, all right? I know it isn't. Believe me. I can't promise that everything will be fine. But I can promise that you'll never have to go back to that. None of us are going to let them have you."

These people hardly know him. He has attempted to kill three of them in the past, and the two he hasn't been sent after were likely targets of Project Insight anyway. None of them, save for Steve and possibly Stark, have any sort of emotional connection to James Buchanan Barnes. Yet they are so willing to defend him. He would say something about that if he had any idea of what to say. If the words didn't catch in his throat.

Instead, he says, "Did you forget who you were?"

"No." There is visible pain in Barton when he speaks of these things. The Soldier's own suffering inspires mostly apathy and sometimes that feeling of heat in his face. Is it recovery, for it to hurt when one speaks of it? He cannot imagine the benefit. "I was—I was _there_ the whole time. But it was like being locked out of my head, and no matter how much I screamed and fought I had to sit back and watch as I was turned against innocent people. People I cared about."

The voice in the Soldier whispered rather than screamed. But they are not without similarity after all. "Do you…" He drops his gaze down to the bow. He thinks of Steve and Sam's worry and the word abuse; perhaps he should not ask. "Do you ever miss the Asgardian?"

There is a long stretch of silence. The Soldier slightly tilts his head so that if Barton is insulted by the question, he will not have to put forth much effort to strike him. Barton is injured and the Soldier does not desire to cause him further pain.

"Yeah."

The Soldier raises his head.

"What he did—it didn't just _make_ us follow him. There was a part of us—a part of _me_ —that wanted to help him." His shoulders shake when he exhales in a long, shuddering breath. "I don't know if that's the worst part about it, but it sure as hell doesn't help. It's not that you _want_ to go back, is it? It's not like you don't know it was wrong. But the connection—"

"Remains," the Soldier murmurs.

"Right."

"Hey, Clint."

Romanoff is in the doorway, and while there is still no red about her person, he can remember a woman in a red dress, another door, the scent of alcohol and the sounds of music. The Soldier feels something he cannot name.

"Yeah?"

"Who's watching your dog right now? Because you might want to give them a head's up that you're still alive."

"Theoretically," Barton says, finally taking the bow from the Soldier and placing it onto his back harness, "my neighbors. In actuality, probably any pizza delivery guys on the block."

"You know they make dog food, right?" Romanoff has her arms crossed, leaning against the door frame. "As in, food made specifically for dogs?"

"Dog likes pizza. I don't control that. You like dogs?" he asks, turning to the Soldier.

Dogs. He thinks of attack dogs. Threats eliminated with bullets. "I don't know."

"You like pizza?"

"It looks like melting flesh."

Barton seems to mull over that description. "Yeah, it kind of does. But the taste makes up for it. You've never had it, have you?"

"No."

"We're gonna need to remedy that, like yesterday. Come on."

It is an order, but it is also a request. The Soldier is beginning to grasp the distinction, beginning to realize that even with how very different this man is from himself, it is possible he understands. The Soldier follows. He thinks he may follow him anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkeye I write is very much inspired by Matt Fraction's current _Hawkeye_ run, hence the boomerang arrow homage ("Because…boomerangs" is Clint's answer to that same question in the comic) and the mentions of Lucky the Pizza Dog (who, since he lives in New York, will probably appear in this story). I can't recommend Fraction's Hawkeye stories enough. I love them.
> 
> I write Winter as holding the bow in his left hand because, insofar as I can tell in the film, he looks into sights on weapons with his right eye, which would suggest that is his dominant eye. If his right eye is dominant, then his right hand would probably be the one to draw the bow (though I could see him being trained with both hands).
> 
> The bit about missing Loki is a headcanon of mine. I figure there must have been a number of psychological side effects after the mind control—just look at Dr. Selvig—but there's also a particular bit in the film that inspires it, right after Loki initially controls the SHIELD agents. There's a moment in which they're walking away with the Tesseract and Loki briefly doubles over in either pain or exhaustion, and one of the agents rushes over to him before Loki can say anything. Which suggests to me that they aren't just following verbal commands, but that they also feel some sort of protectiveness toward him.
> 
> Translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Что = What


	44. Chapter 44

There is, the Soldier quickly learns, more than one type of pizza in the world, and the variety they select appears to be a serious matter. Stark, Barton, and Romanoff debate "toppings" with all the furor and stubbornness the Soldier associates with combat strategizing. He watches, silent, assessing how best to disarm them with minimal damage should fighting break out, as they argue over things like anchovy and pepperoni and Hawaiian.

To the Soldier's right, Sam is trying to explain these words. His efforts are inadequate, though not unappreciated. Anchovy is a sort of fish, but the Soldier cannot recall ever tasting any sort of aquatic life. His mind supplies no definition for the word "salami." Ham is a familiar food; pineapple is not. It is possible that he has seen the things they are discussing, but most of the images that come to mind when he thinks of food are either MREs from the strike team members or half-digested remains spilling out of cut stomachs. Neither recollection is applicable now.

"Are we sure," Steve asks over the dispute, brow slightly furrowed, "that Bucky can even digest those things?"

"No, we aren't. That settles it." Relief, possibly, flashes over Sam's face. The Soldier concludes that the potential relief is more likely due to the matter being settled than to the possibility of pizza-borne sickness. There may be some circumstance in which the Soldier's vomit is beneficial, but he cannot envision it. HYDRA had never utilized it for any medical or combative purpose that he recalls. "We're getting cheese."

There are murmurs—not dissent, but resignation—from the others. Steve assures him that this is melodrama on their parts and that no one actually dislikes cheese pizza.

Melodrama. The Soldier adds that to his list of words in need of definition.

A little over three quarters of an hour pass before the pizza is delivered. It still looks like melting flesh, albeit with a thin layer of oil over it. The scent is different, though. He thinks burning bodies smelled more like…barbeque? Is that a word?

He stares at the slice on his plate. It seems to glisten under the lights. He would calculate the odds of his ability to successfully digest this, but considering the only times he can remember vomiting were when he was starving and undergoing amputation, there would be little point to the exercise. Also, pizza appears to consist of cheese and bread, both of which he has kept down in the past without struggle.

"How do you eat it?" he asks. None of the foods he was introduced to previously were ever so...triangular.

"Not with a fork," Stark says, and to the Soldier's left, Steve sighs.

"That was one time. Are you ever going to let that go?"

"You ate _pizza_ with a fork, Spangles. That's not the kind of thing one lets go."

"I was in uniform and I didn't want to get tomato sauce on everything."

"So what, super soldiers are shockingly uncoordinated?" Stark picks up his own slice. "Now listen, Stepford. There are two ways to eat pizza: the _right_ way, and every other method."

"That is more than two ways," the Soldier says so quietly he can barely hear himself.

"The right way," Stark continues, "is that you start with the crust first."

"Maybe that's the right way for crazy rich people." Barton has already bitten into a slice, at the end opposite the crust, and speaks around it. "You eat the crust last _._ You hold onto it until then."

" _False,_ Big Bird. That's saving the most boring and least flavorful part 'til the end."

"That's why there are dipping sauces," Romanoff says. The Soldier notices for the first time that there is a thin chain around her neck with some kind of small charm hanging from it. She is at the opposite end of the table and he is not sure what the thing on the necklace is meant to be.

Barton swallows. "You don't need the sauces. You just leave, like, an inch of the actual pizza and eat that along with the crust."

"There's not a right or a wrong way to eat pizza, Bucky," Sam says. "But there is a _best_ way, and that's folding it in half." He proceeds to do so with his own slice over the protests of Romanoff, Stark, and Barton.

For a food consisting of bread, cheese, and possibly tomato sauce, there are entirely too many options for its consumption. The Soldier looks to Steve, who smiles and shrugs.

"Just eat it however you want," he says, and the Soldier does not want to eat it any particular way, so he picks up the slice and bites into the end opposite the crust. Stark mutters something about kids today, a statement the Soldier thinks would make no sense upon further examination, but he doesn't examine it because he manages to identify the thing on Romanoff's necklace.

An arrow.

Romanoff and Barton sit beside each other. When their eyes do not meet, their elbows and probably their knees brush together. But their eyes often meet. They can talk without speaking. The concept is not alien to the Soldier; it was necessary on some missions to communicate with the body. But those were simple messages such as "fall back" or "path is clear." These two—Mercenaries? Ninja?—have a nuance in their movements that those communications never reached. Any method of interaction in which the Soldier had been expected to respond was inherently limited, but he thinks this difference goes beyond the human weapon dichotomy.

This is, possibly, friendship.

The hallucination of Steve was always making contact: holding the Soldier's hand, worrying at injuries. James Buchanan Barnes, if the flashes of memories are correct, used to put his arm around Steve's shoulders. In the tower, Steve has held his hand and rubbed his back, guided his fingers around knitting needles. They are not starved for touch, but there is trepidation when contact occurs. The Soldier's movements are hesitant for fear of breaking the man, and perhaps Steve falters to keep from spooking the former weapon.

Barton and Romanoff are effortless. They are not concealing their caution for one another; there is no caution to conceal.

The archer said he had been made to oppose those he cared for. Said that he could remember who he was the entire time. The Soldier had been falling apart with nothing but little fragments of memory when he was sent to eliminate Steve. To be made to fight a friend so close, a friend fully remembered, must have been immeasurably worse.

At the thought of it, the Soldier goes rigid. He feels something else as well, a sinking weight not unlike when his metal arm ran the risk of drowning him in the Potomac. Three days, Barton had said, and the Soldier had felt badly for himself because his time span was so vastly different. And now they sit at a table together, like comrades, because Barton has not realized the terrible cold the Soldier is capable of. None of them have.

It feels like a lie, sitting here. Lies should be confessed and punished, but his throat is paralyzed and his mind races, casting about for anything other than the heartless, lying now.

The woman in the red dress, standing in the doorway. He had stood up when she entered because it was respectful. Should he be standing now for Romanoff?

Steve had been there. The woman in red spoke to him. She'd had an accent. She'd had dark brown eyes that never left Steve's face, even when Barnes had spoken to her. "I might even," she'd said, "when this is all over, go dancing."

But Steve wasn't the one who danced, so why had the woman in red said that to him?

There is something inside him when he remembers the way she looked at Steve, an emotion he can't categorize.

"Like it, Buck?" Steve asks, and the Soldier is pulled halfway back to the present.

"We met a dame," he says. He means _we met a woman_ , but it comes out funny. "She had a…she had…her voice wasn't American. She had a red dress."

Right as the words leave his lips, he tenses. Steve doesn't see colors the way everyone else does. He remembers crayons in their youth, how Steve used to act like the reds and yellows and greens were interchangeable before he started drawing with just pencils and charcoal. He remembers the words color blind and his stomach twists to have brought colors up at all.

The Soldier hadn't realized what cruelty he was capable of before today. He was never cruel as a weapon. Cold, calculating, but not cruel.

But Steve says, "Peggy" and the Soldier realizes firstly that the serum must have changed Steve's vision and secondly that the name Agent Peggy Carter is not entirely unfamiliar. "Peggy Carter. That would have been the first time you met her."

Steve's eyes are distant and they look almost sad, but the Soldier must be reading them wrong because then Steve smiles. "That was a beautiful dress. You remember it?"

"We were in the army?" he asks. They must have been if Steve had already taken the serum.

"Yeah, we were. That was the day we put the Commandos together, remember?"

When James Buchanan Barnes and Steve served side by side, it was after Barnes had been rescued from the POW camp in Austria. He'd read about it at the Smithsonian. The POW camp was run by HYDRA. Before, amidst questions such as "Am I human?" and "Am I Barnes?" that information had been little more than a footnote.

But now that he thinks on it, it is all encompassing. Barnes had been HYDRA's once before. Then he came back. He served with Steve and earned the title of a war hero. It may be the most crucial time in Barnes's life, if only insofar as a learning experience for the Soldier to emulate. "Tell me everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's "Stepford" nickname is a reference to _The Stepford Wives,_ a novel and later film about a town that replaces women with robot doubles.
> 
> I wanted to give Clint one of the less typical methods of eating pizza so it would be clear when Winter started eating his own slice that he was imitating the way Clint did, but I went back and checked my comics and nope, Clint eats pizza from the end opposite the crust without doing anything unusual, so there you go.
> 
> Natasha wore [a necklace with an arrow pendant](http://imageserver.moviepilot.com/widow-arrow-avengers-age-of-ultron-easter-egg-reveals-a-love-triangle.png?width=1000&height=580) in multiple scenes of _The Winter Soldier._
> 
> Color blindness is one of the conditions listed in [Steve's medical records.](http://marvel.com/images/949649#0-949649) I imagine that his type of color blindness was either deuteranomaly or deuteranopia, as those are the two most common color blind conditions. They are both known as red-green color blindness: deuteranomaly is the reduced presence of M-cones in the eye and deuteranopia is the absence of M-cones. This results in red, yellow, orange and green tones looking similar or interchangeable with each other, as well as violets, purples, and blues looking alike. [This webpage](http://www.webexhibits.org/causesofcolor/2B.html) has simulations of the various types of color blindness, and [this Tumblr post](http://likeadisguise.tumblr.com/post/49839617426/pre-serum-steve-rogers-was-color-blind-he) illustrates how scenes in the film may have appeared to pre-serum Steve.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the stretch without an update; I was off updating my terribly skeevy [series of unfortunate events.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/114886)

"And that," Steve concludes, grinning ear to ear, "is why Phillips banned the entire SSR from ever trying espresso again."

"Even you?" the Soldier asks. He cannot imagine the serum in Steve's body could allow for such a pronounced reaction to caffeine. But then, when Barnes tried espresso, he had already been a prisoner in Austria and likely had the earliest versions of HYDRA's attempt at the serum circulating in his veins.

"Even me."

They are in Steve's room. The stories about the war had begun at the table, but it had also been daylight outside when Steve had started. It is night now and they have relocated. The room has a record player and the Soldier stared when he saw it, only half-hearing Steve's story about James Morita attempting to drive on the wrong side of a British road. He knew how to use the device, though the records he glanced over did not bring any memories of music or dancing to mind. Steve said that the Soldier had liked Glenn Miller, but the "American Patrol" single failed to trigger any emotional reaction or recollection, so they returned to the stories.

Steve has many books. The Soldier garners from the titles that most of them are about events of the twentieth century. Some of the names are vaguely familiar: Kennedy, Bay of Pigs, Tet Offensive. Others—Watergate, Stonewall, Little Rock Nine—are unknown. If he had a hand in any of these things—how much of the century has he shaped?—then his handlers must not have deemed the knowledge worthy of retention.

Steve's shield, recovered from the Potomac, rests at the foot of the bed. There is a desk and the Soldier's file sits atop it. There is a sketchbook and pencils are scattered around.

Steve has many, many stories. Some make the Soldier smile and some make Steve laugh as he tells them. For recounting events from a war, all of the stories are relatively bloodless. That is perhaps for the Soldier's benefit, and he wonders how many stories he is not hearing. How had James Buchanan Barnes carried himself on the battlefield? What had he thought about while waiting to fire his rifle? The Soldier never thought when he was sniping, beyond recalculating a shot against the winds or distinguishing a target from other bystanders.

Had James Buchanan Barnes been able to fall asleep after Steve rescued him?

"You went into Austria to save B—" The Soldier pauses. He has no memory of the POW camp but in some way that person was him. If the Soldier can remember Peggy Carter speaking about dancing, if that was him standing beside Steve as she entered in the red dress, then it follows that the person he cannot remember from Austria is him as well. And Steve always looks mildly wounded when the Soldier says "Barnes" in place of "me." "You went into Austria to save me."

"Yeah." Steve isn't smiling as much now. He looks cautious, but not as if he thinks the Soldier will become violent. It is hesitancy directed toward the Soldier rather than worry for himself, as if the Soldier may break. He must know how resilient the Soldier is, but he still has such reserve. It is maybe irritating and maybe comforting. "Of course I did. Couldn't leave you there."

"When you came to find me…" He pauses, straining for any memory of that moment. There are not even fragments. "Did I know you?"

Steve's hand slides over his. He's touching the metal. He touches that hand often and the Soldier doesn't understand why. It has inflicted so much damage and it is the part of him that is most visibly HYDRA. "You did. It took a minute—you were drugged and hurt and delirious with a fever—but you did. It was the first time you saw me after the serum. actually. Kind of a miracle you weren't too confused to follow me, the state you were in."

Perhaps Barnes had seen Steve at his side while he was in the camp, the way that the Soldier had imagined him during the programming. Maybe that is why he recognized Steve so quickly. "Did I know me?" The words sound stilted. A shake of the head and he tries again. "Know who I was?"

Steve nods.

Johann Schmidt must not have been an effective leader, the Soldier decides. HYDRA was much more successful in forging their asset the second time that they had him captive. Or does the success of that attempt rest solely on the extended time?

The Soldier would prefer that Zola was the better leader rather than let the fault fall on Barnes for not being able to wait out the experience.

"You were different then," Steve says.

Different than he is now? Obviously. The Soldier tilts his head.

"I mean, different than you were before the war." He isn't looking at the Soldier. Following his eye line, he appears to be staring at the wall, but his expression says that he doesn't see the painted plaster. He is looking beyond it, perceiving something the Soldier cannot observe. "Quieter, sometimes. You spent more time by yourself than you ever did back home. You'd wake up in the night and just lie there instead of trying to sleep again. Sometimes I don't think you ever even went to bed."

James Buchanan Barnes does not sound like a very good soldier. If he was in some way damaged as a result of his captivity, he ought to have reported it so he could be repaired rather than carry on and endanger the rest of his team with his potential for malfunction.

"I didn't keep as close of an eye on you as I should have," Steve says. "I—there was always another base to take out, or some job to be done, or Peggy—I told myself you'd be fine, that we'd win the war and things would be the way they always were."

Agent Peggy Carter. He can still only recall her in the red dress; any other encounters they may have had are lost in the vast, dark expanse that comprises most of his mind. That sensation again, when he thinks of her. An emotion he can't name. What is it?

"You changed," Steve continues. "I thought about that a lot after you fell. How it was my fault. How I should have seen, should have taken you out of combat." A sigh. His eyes still have that faraway look.

 _You changed too_ , the Soldier nearly says. He thinks of the photographs from the Smithsonian, pre- and post-serum. He imagines how preoccupied Steve must have been with winning a war, too busy to focus on soldiers who couldn't be trusted to report their own damages. He does not say it aloud because surely Steve is aware that he's changed. There is no use in wasting his time with redundant observations.

Instead, the Soldier picks up the shield from the floor. The last time he held it, it was coated in debris, paint scratched. Now it is flawless and smooth. "You found it in the—" He is unsure of the English word for river. "—water?"

"I didn't. It was in the hospital when I woke up. I'm not sure how they found that, come to think of it."

The Soldier can envision of a number of methods to locate it. Diving is unlikely due to the debris from the helicarriers, but the shield absorbs vibration somehow. Echolocation might have worked if they searched for a spot where the sound disappeared entirely. He says nothing, staring down at bright colors. His fingers trace along the grooves of the metal. Once, twice, three times around. It is almost hypnotic.

When he raises his head, Steve has retrieved the sketchbook and is pressing a pencil to the paper. "You're drawing?"

"Yeah." Steve pauses, glancing up. "Hey, can you look back down for a second?"

The Soldier complies, focusing on the sketchbook in his peripheral vision. He cannot make out the image forming on the page from here. "What are you drawing?"

"You." He holds the sketchbook in the Soldier's view. There is a body, cross-legged, bent slightly over a shield. There are few details yet, but the lines of the metal arm are sketched in, the star shaded. The face is so far just a vague silhouette with hair. "See?"

"Why?"

"Because you'd never sit still long enough for me to draw you back in the day."

His fingers ghost over the page without actually touching. He will not risk smearing the lines.

"You used to do this too, you know." Steve moves the sketchbook back toward his own body, and there is a sound of the pencil on the page.

The Soldier raises his head before immediately lowering it again. "Draw?"

"We had an art class in college. It wasn't your major, but you still took it."

He cannot imagine himself drawing. HYDRA never needed creative endeavors from their asset. The knitting is a practical skill as much as it is a craft. If there is a functional use to art, it was never explained to him. The only time the Soldier ever touched paint was to smear it around his eyes. "Was I skilled?"

"You used to call yourself the next Picasso." A beat of silence falls between them and Steve adds, "Uh, it's probably for the best that it wasn't your field of study. You can move your head now."

He raises it, looks toward the page. The face is sketched in. He recognizes the eyes and brows as his own: no one ever gave the asset a mirror that he can recall, but he caught glimpses of his face above the mask in reflective surfaces. The mouth is smiling. The smile belongs to Barnes. Do they share a smile?

"Like it?" Steve moves his wrist. A few lines later, and he has perfectly recreated the gleam of the overhead lights on the shield. It is a stunning skill, even if it is technically useless.

His gaze returns to the smile. He wants to share that with Barnes, even if Barnes was a poor soldier and overflowing with emotions the Soldier cannot name. "I like it much."

"Here." Steve takes the corner of the paper and pulls the whole sheet from the book. "It's yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Glenn Miller version of "[American Patrol](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DK-lBi5r6Jk)" is actually a cover of F.W. Meacham's original song. The Miller single was released in 1942 and reached the 15th slot in Billboard magazine's rankings that year.
> 
> The Soldier's memories of certain historical events doesn't necessarily mean he was responsible for them; I imagine he'd have a vague knowledge of important happenings during history from mission briefings as well. But events tied with civil rights or cultural shifts, such as the Little Rock Nine or the Stonewall Riots, would likely be unfamiliar to him.
> 
> According to the _First Vengeance_ tie-in comic for _The First Avenger_ film, Bucky wasn't just being experimented on in the camp. He also had pneumonia from the trenches and several broken ribs from being beaten by guards at the time. And he got to deal with his cellmates [trying to change his nickname from Bucky to Jimmy.](http://lauralot89.tumblr.com/post/91401887901) Because Bucky Barnes can never catch a break.
> 
> Also according to _First Vengeance_ , [Bucky and Steve were in an art class together](https://dcomixologyssl.sslcs.cdngc.net/i/5747/7553/4d4c608938a34.jpg?h=1dd228e22bc9cf3f497ee35b879a3271), and that's where Bucky's line about being the next Picasso comes from. As someone who worked as an art model in the past, I can say that I've met actual art majors whose skill levels were near Bucky's.


	46. Chapter 46

He sleeps for a handful of hours and wakes with a new memory in his mind and a nameless but familiar emotion in his body. The Soldier rises—he never manages to fall back asleep right after rousing, so he does not bother to try—and locates Sam. The man is still unconscious in his own bed, so the Soldier stands, waiting, replaying this last recovered memory over and over within his head.

When Sam wakes the Soldier gives him a full five seconds to gain his bearings before he speaks. "I am feeling something not in the book."

Sam swears loudly and his body slams back with considerable force against the headboard. His breathing is erratic. The Soldier remains motionless, silent, until the man collects himself. "Bucky, what the _hell_?"

"I am feeling something not in the book."

With a sigh, Sam shakes his head. His body is trembling minutely as though he has just performed an act of great physical exertion. Or as though he is sliding into shock. "We're gonna talk about knocking later," he says. "And about not standing in the dark in silence like you're goddamn Michael Myers. And probably etiquette as a whole. What are you feeling?"

The Soldier gives Sam what he believes is called "a look." If he knew what the feeling was, he wouldn't be here.

"I just woke up to find an assassin staring down at me like an overgrown house cat," Sam says, motioning for the Soldier to sit. "Forgive me if it takes a second to get firing on all cylinders. What's up?"

"There was a mission in Birmingham." Why he recalls the location but not the date is beyond the Soldier. The mattress beneath him is hard. "I planted explosives. Two in…places with people and alcohol."

"Bars?"

A shrug. "The third outside of a building…a place with money."

"A bank."

"The third failed to detonate. My handler—" He can't see the man's face or bring to mind a name. It hadn't been Pierce. "Was not happy. I was—" His voice catches though he knows the word. The Soldier moves his arms before his torso, bending the left in front of his chest as that hand forms the "s" sign, palm down. The index finger of his right hand points, and he sweeps it down the left forearm to the elbow. _Punish._

He had been struck about the head multiple times. The blows had little impact, so he had leaned into one to aide in the reprimand. A flare of pain, a sudden dizziness, and blood had come trickling from his ear.

"It feels…hot. Teeth—" He moves his arms back before his body, bent, left palm lying flat and facing up, and rubs his right fist in circles against it. _Grind._ "Everything is tight and I want to yell."

"You remember feeling like that any other time?"

He thinks of shoving Steve away from him and into a wall. Knocking the computer chip from Steve's hand on the helicarrier. Grabbing Sam by the collar in DC and dragging him halfway across the table. " _Да_?"

"All right." Sam's face is impassive. He gives no hint as to the correct answer to this question of sensation. "What do you think that emotion might be?"

"I feel—I think…" He closes his eyes. " _Обозленный_. Angry?" His eyes open, scanning the man's face with apprehension. It can't be the right answer.

"It's as good a description of anger as I've ever heard. But 'angry' was in the book, remember?" Sam seems to be scrutinizing the Soldier just as the Soldier was analyzing him.

He averts his eyes. "It felt not right. I am not made to be angry at handlers."

"Bucky, emotions can't be programmed. Anger's an involuntary sensation. You can control how you respond to anger, but you can't keep yourself from feeling it." One of Sam's hands rubs at his back, where he collided with the headboard. "Any idea why you were angry?"

"He called me stupid. I'm…" Metal fingers tap at his temple as he searches for the word. "Not stupid? I'm a sniper. You have to know things to be a sniper. The direction of wind and how fast it goes and elevation and…you have to know things. I could make shots over 2000 meters away. I'm not stupid."

"No," Sam says, "you're not."

"And…I didn't make the bomb. What went wrong with it, I did not control." Why had a sniper been utilized to plant explosives in the first place? Who had approved this mission? "I was damaged for it but someone else caused it." He cannot help but flinch as he speaks. This is talking back and that has never been allowed.

"And it's perfectly reasonable to be angry about that. It's not wrong or bad. They were wrong to punish you for something out of your control, okay?"

"They were wrong?"

"Yeah." Sam stretches his arms over his head and the Soldier can hear a crack through his spine. "And you look like you could use some time to think that over, so I'm gonna grab a shower, all right? If you need something you can come in, but announce it, would you? If I open the shower curtain and you're lingering outside it, I'll probably drop dead."

The Soldier remains seated on the mattress. He watches Sam step through the doorway and again remembers Peggy Carter. He can't place the emotion he feels when he thinks of her well enough to determine whether it was in the book. Closing his eyes, the Soldier tries to repeat the process that Sam just led him through so he can pin down the elusive sensation.

She had walked in. Steve had stood up, and so had he. He thinks the first thing he noticed was how beautiful she was. He thinks the second thing he noticed was her eyes. They were locked onto Steve. Everyone's were, in those days. It was inevitable; Steve was a super soldier. He remembers feeling something then: tightness in his stomach, as if the abdominal walls were guarding themselves against an injury.

"Captain," Peggy Carter had said.

"Agent Carter," Steve had said.

"Ma'am." That was Barnes.

Carter had glanced in his direction. It was the shortest look and then her eyes went right back to Steve's. There had been tension in his jaw. Was this anger? Why would he be angry with her? She was their ally and she had helped Steve into Austria to retrieve him. There is no logic in any anger toward her.

Perhaps it is not anger. When he feels angry there is heat throughout him and what he feels now is hollow.

"I see your top squad is prepping for duty," Carter had said.

Barnes said "You don't like music," and Carter's eyes still did not move. He'd felt exceptionally tense and exceptionally empty and the Soldier does not understand how the two sensations can coincide.

[ _did you ever look at him like that before he changed did you ever even_ see _him then_ ]

The Soldier's eyes open. Was that Barnes? Was that what he had thought?

"I do, actually." Carter again. She had a beautiful voice, a voice not unlike music, and when she spoke, it was obvious that Steve's world had come to focus on that voice alone. "I might even, when this is all over, go dancing."

"Well, what are we waitin' for?" Barnes had asked, but the Soldier doesn't think he'd wanted to dance. He had wanted

[ _he's my friend he needed me and you all took that away look at me see me don't take him from me_ ]

to put distance between Steve and Carter. He had wanted Steve to rely on him.

"The right partner," Carter had said. She had not looked at him. Barnes could tell from her eyes that her world had come to rest on Steve as Steve's had narrowed to her. They were locked into an orbit that did not intersect with Barnes. The Soldier expects to feel some new and terrible sensation flood him, but Barnes had continued to feel so hollow.

By contrast, the Soldier feels cold. The wrong sort of cold.

James Buchanan Barnes had been—Jealous? Angry?— _unhappy_ that Steve had become Captain America. He had felt obsolete. Steve was no longer frail and looked down upon. He didn't become winded on long flights of stairs or risk death each time the flu made its rounds. He likely couldn't even get the flu anymore. He was the hero he'd always been, only now everyone could see it, and Barnes had felt poorly for himself instead of proud for his best friend.

"I'm invisible," Barnes had said when Carter left. "I—I'm turning into you. This is a horrible dream."

The Soldier physically recoils, as if slapped. This was Steve's best friend? This was what Barnes had thought and how he had spoken to him? And this was the day that Steve had trusted him enough to invite him into the Howling Commandos?

He remembers that conversation now, though he does not want to.

"How 'bout you?" Steve had asked. "You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

"Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I'm following him."

Too dumb not to run away from a fight. Too _dumb_. Steve Rogers is _not_ dumb, just as the Soldier is not stupid. Why would Barnes call him that? It's a lie and it is cruel. The Soldier feels a tear slip from his eye but he wipes it away, refusing himself any catharsis that crying could provide.

James Buchanan Barnes was not just a poor soldier, or a careless one. He was not a friend who was too weak to keep himself from becoming a weapon.

James Buchanan Barnes was a monster.

"You all right, Bucky?" Sam asks. The Soldier is not sure when he returned.

He can't form words. He was _awful_ and he has no place here and Steve deserves to know the truth about the person he considers a best friend, but how can he cause Steve more pain? How can he begin to find the language to explain how horrible Barnes was?

"I'm…thinking." He has to force the words.

"Uh-huh." He does not bother to try deciphering Sam's expression, too preoccupied with the evil lurking inside him. "How about you think over some breakfast?"

The Soldier follows after Sam, the weight of guilt and disgust growing with every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier is remembering the [Birmingham pub bombings of 1974.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Birmingham_pub_bombings) The perpetrators of the explosions were never identified. I went back and forth on whether or not it was in poor taste to use them here, but considering all of the direct historical allusions in the original Winter Soldier comic storyline and the way Marvel movies tend to borrow from real life events (such as the Cuban missile crisis or Kennedy's assassination) I decided to bite the bullet and go for it.
> 
> Any shot fired from 1.25 kilometers or more is considered long-distance sniping and is extremely difficult to do. The snipers have to deal with a number of factors such as the direction and speed of the wind, the elevation, the air density, and even the rotation of the Earth.
> 
> My characterization of Bucky in the flashback is based on [Sebastian Stan's response in an interview with BoxOffice.com](http://www.boxoffice.com/articles/2011-07-sebastian-stan-is-bucky):
> 
> " _Do you think Bucky almost wishes he was the one turned into a super soldier?_
> 
> No, I don't think so…It wasn't like, "Steve's this muscle guy and I want to be him." It's more like, "Oh god—he's grown up and what do I do?"
> 
> For those reading on a mobile or who can't otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> Да = Yes  
> Обозленный = Pissed off


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, this chapter contains self-harm and strong suicidal ideation.

"Still thinking?" Sam asks once they are at the table.

Through a mouthful of the dish called scrambled eggs—usually Sam wants him to choose the type of egg from an overwhelmingly large list of cooking methods, but thankfully today he did not—the Soldier makes a sound. It is not a word and therefore it is not a lie. James Buchanan Barnes was a liar and the Soldier has no desire to be like him.

But he also has no desire to hurt Steve. If Steve were to find out what the man he misses so much had been like under his façade of friendship, Steve may fall to pieces. So he cannot say anything, but a lie of omission is still dishonest and doesn't that make him as awful as Barnes?

He remembers the table the night prior, with Barton and Romanoff. He thinks of how dismissive the Soldier had been in regards to Barton's own suffering. He is already as awful as Barnes. Cruelty must be in his nature, some insidious biological programming he cannot hope to extract.

"Did I ever tell you what I do for a living?" Sam sets down his fork.

The Soldier had not thought of Sam's career. He hadn't thought of anyone's life outside the tower or combat. Whatever this man's employment is, the Soldier's broken mind is keeping him from it. His stomach sinks lower as his head shakes.

"I counsel veteran soldiers who are readjusting to civilian life," Sam says. "Some of them, in the first session they come to, don't say anything at all. Some of them don't speak for weeks. They all have their reasons—being ashamed of something they've done, or thinking their own experiences are too different for anyone else to connect with—but each and every one of them said it was a huge weight off their chest when they did open up. Even if there wasn't an answer to their problem. Sometimes just talking itself can help."

It is not phrased as an order and Sam had said he would not be giving orders ever, but it feels remarkably like a command regardless. The Soldier swallows. His throat has gone dry and the motion aches. "Do I have to?"

"You don't have to do anything. People can choose, remember?" Pushing his chair back, Sam takes his now empty plate and carries it to the sink. "I just want you to know that I'll be here to listen whenever you choose to take that opportunity."

The Soldier chooses silence and chooses to leave the room once his own dishes are dealt with. "I will be in the shower," he says. It seems rude to keep entirely quiet after an offer of aid, however misguided the camaraderie may be. He is bad enough without adding rudeness on top of things.

"Hey," Sam says. "Before you go, how do you feel about dogs?"

The only dogs he can remember were trained to sink their teeth into his legs or to snap at his throat. He feels neither anger toward them nor fear. A dog is not so different from an asset, depending on what it is taught. "I don't know."

"Clint was going to bring his dog over." Sam glances at the clock on the stove. "At a more reasonable hour, I mean. But if that's going to trigger you, you don't have to be around for it, all right?"

"I will not be triggered." People have tried to kill him in the past as well, and he does not respond to the sight of people with violence unless it is apparent that they are active threats. A dog should be no different.

He stands in the shower for so long that he fears the arm may become damaged even with the waterproofing. The water is no longer hot by the time he switches it off, but the room is full of steam and he must wipe the fog from the mirror before he can begin to shave his face. The air is thick and dizzying and were he not already sickened from guilt and shame and disgust and horror at the creature that he is, he thinks it would be nauseating.

His right hand, shaking, picks up the razor. The Soldier thinks of the morning his hand slipped and the blades nicked his face, thinks of the night in the alley near the Smithsonian, driving the knife into his leg. He thinks of HYDRA and of order through pain.

He flicks his wrist and a thin red line opens down his cheekbone. The world had been tilting around him but now it begins to right itself. It moves too slowly, so he drags the razor against his jaw, leaning over the sink so as not to stain the towel wrapped around his hips.

HYDRA had not allowed disloyal soldiers to live. Sometimes they tried to run and became missions assigned to him. Sometimes they were found out before they could flee and he was sent in to make an example in front of others. But whatever the method of disposal, there was never leniency. Never prisoners. HYDRA had no place for such things.

His left hand, still cool in spite of the water and steam, presses against his carotid artery. He is not wearing the glove—he isn't sure if that's waterproof—so he cannot feel the thump of his pulse against the fingers, but he knows exactly where it is.

Steve will never kill him no matter how much he deserves it, both now and then. Perhaps the others could be persuaded—though Steve may fight them—but he can't ask them to clean up the mess that is his existence. The least he can do is deal with this on his own.

If the razor slices the artery, it will be over in a matter of minutes. Not at the sink, of course. He would move to the shower first, close the doors. It would contain the blood in an area where the stains could be easily washed away. But he doesn't want to die in the tower. He doesn't want to upset whoever would stumble upon the body.

Maybe if he goes elsewhere to do it, Steve will not even realize it has happened. The Soldier is unsure if it would be better or worse for Steve to think Barnes is still alive somewhere. Would the possibility of another reunion be more painful than the knowledge of suicide? Though that question only applies if he chooses a method of death that cannot appear as an accident.

There are so many ways to die and the Soldier runs through most of them as he stands before the mirror, waiting for the cuts to heal to the point of becoming inconspicuous. He thinks being run over would kill him if the vehicle was large enough or moving at the right speed. But that risks injury or trauma to the driver. There is falling from a great height, poisoning, suffocation, exsanguination, burning, a broken neck, hyperthermia, hypothermia—he thinks hypothermia would not be unpleasant. He experienced it before without even realizing it and there is comfort in the cold.

His hand will not stop shaking. Fear blossoms in his stomach alongside the guilt, and that makes the disgust all the stronger.

As an asset, he did not fear death. He did not long to live; he felt no self-preservation. If his mission had been to press a gun to his own head and fire, he would not even have blinked before fulfilling the objective.

He bites the inside of his lips where damage will not be visible until his mouth is flooded with the taste of copper. As an asset, he was nearly perfect. As a person, he is nothing but humanity's worst and weakest traits. He cannot even will himself to feel the impassive nature that was programmed over seven decades.

By the time Barton and Romanoff arrive with the dog, around noon, his hand has nearly stopped shaking. He has ceased the biting despite the grounding it provides for fear of staining his teeth red and drawing attention.

When the Soldier thinks of dogs, the images that come to mind are very large. Mastiffs, he believes some of them were called, and Rottweilers. Some missions had small, loud dogs. He is not sure what those were called. Barton's dog is somewhere between small and large, golden brown in color. The dog has only one eye, and a piece of pizza is clamped in his jaws.

"That can't be healthy," Romanoff sighs. The dog is on a leash and she and Barton are both holding onto the other end.

"Hey, Kate bought him dog food. That fancy canned stuff? He likes pizza. I've learned not to fight it."

"I'll bet you never tried."

The dog sits on the floor, gnawing at the slice. The Soldier notes that the dog starts from the crust up.

"Bucky, this is Lucky." Barton takes a seat beside the dog.

The Soldier considers approaching, but one does not get between a dog and his meal, particularly if it is an unfamiliar dog. He waves, which strikes him afterward as absurd, but he is not sure what other response would be appropriate. Lucky seems nonthreatening. Watching him, it strikes the Soldier that he may like dogs that aren't trying to maul him.

"Want to pet him?" Barton asks once the pizza is devoured.

When the Soldier nods, Romanoff stands. She tugs gently on the leash and the dog trots to the Soldier's location. His tail is wagging. For a moment, the Soldier's hand hovers in the air before the dog. He has no memory of petting animals and he does not wish to cause agitation by doing so incorrectly. But then Lucky's nose, cold and wet, is pressing against his hand. He thinks this is anticipation and he carefully reaches to the space just behind the dog's ear, repeating the stroking motion his last commanding officer used to do with his own hair.

Lucky's tail wags faster. The dog seems to melt, leaning his body against the Soldier's leg. He pushes his head into the Soldier's hand, and the Soldier repeats the motion, letting his fingers rub through the dog's fur. Romanoff lets go of the leash and sits on the arm of the couch, watching.

Transfixed, the Soldier can only stare down at the effect of his ministrations. Lucky looks so content, so utterly unconcerned with anything around him save for the hand behind his ear. The Soldier thinks he used to be that way after a successful mission. There was nothing in his mind but strategy and his handler's approval. It was quiet. He misses that.

Oblivious of the indignities and petty injuries inflicted upon him. Unaware of the people he had hurt. Completely ignorant of the monster that he is. He misses that.

People can choose, Sam had said.

The Soldier can choose to go back home.

"Hey Bucky."

He looks up to find Steve in the doorway. "Making a new friend?"

The Soldier swallows, gathers his resolve. _I think I should return to HYDRA._ The words are in his mouth, but of course he cannot say them. No matter what Sam says about choice, Steve will not allow it. This is a lie by way of exclusion, but he is already awful, so what is to keep him from lying? "I need to go back to DC."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Sam is either on Tony's payroll for his help in the tower, or is receiving some other type of compensation.
> 
> The Kate that Clint's referring to is Kate Bishop, the second Hawkeye, who currently co-stars with Clint in the Matt Fraction run on _Hawkeye._


	48. Chapter 48

The windows of the car are rolled down as Barton navigates the interstate, and a gust of wind blows through, whipping the Soldier's hair into his face. He blinks, eyes stinging. The Soldier's right hand brushes the hair back, left hand taking a cigarette from between his lips. He exhales smoke. The cigarette is the reason the windows are open.

"It might not hurt your lungs," Romanoff had said when she saw the pack, "but not everyone's a super soldier."

Romanoff, sitting beside him in the backseat of the car, is moving now, taking something from her pocket. "Here," she says, and her hands are on his hair, gently pulling it back. She wraps some sort of soft elastic band around his hair, and it stays in place when her hands move back to her lap. Her own hair is pulled back as well.

Sometimes, the Soldier thinks, HYDRA would do that with his hair during especially windy missions.

He wonders if they'll do that for future missions as well, or if they'll cut at it to avoid the problem altogether. He doesn't remember if they ever cut his hair. If they do cut it, he likely won't remember; he will come to in rooms without mirrors and if he catches a glimpse in some reflective surface, he won't know how it was before to tell the difference.

"Halfway there," Barton announces just as the Soldier is murmuring a quiet "thank you" to Romanoff.

Steve had not wanted the Soldier to return to DC.

He had not, as the Soldier learned shortly after making the request to return, come in simply to see how the Soldier was getting along with Barton's dog. Steve was also there to announce that he had to leave for work again, which means that now some HYDRA base or splinter faction is being eliminated. It makes his stomach clench if he thinks on it—Steve was his mission once and what if he becomes so again?—but the odds of being reassigned to eliminate Captain America are exceedingly low. Steve had proven himself as an extremely difficult target when HYDRA was at full force and currently it is in pieces and exposed. Besides, the asset had malfunctioned when he was tasked with assassinating Steve. Usually malfunctions are simply punished, but on rare occasions he thinks they were dealt with by restricting his access to the source of the error.

If HYDRA wants him back, the chances are favorable that he will be kept away from Steve to lessen the risk of losing their weapon a second time.

"What do you want to see in DC, Buck?" Steve had asked.

"The Smithsonian." The Soldier was not sure whether or not he was a skilled liar. Barnes had appeared to be, but that was seventy years ago. He kept his face as impassive as possible, but Steve's expression had still been scrutinizing. "I can—I'm starting to remember things. I want to see the exhibit again."

"I can take you when I get back," Steve had said. "I can show you my apartment."

Lucky had pushed his head into the Soldier's lap; his hand had stopped petting while he was focused on the lie. He resumed the action and the dog managed to look even happier than he had previously, which the Soldier would not have thought possible. "Good boy," he said. They used to say that to him. He doubted he responded in the same manner as Lucky because he doubted he was capable of such intense joy, but whatever approximation of happiness he used to feel at the praise had been sufficient. The world had been so much simpler then.

He'd raised his eyes back to Steve. "It's urgent."

Steve had not seemed happy about the idea, and neither had Sam, who the Soldier thought had regarded him with something like suspicion ever since breakfast. The Soldier was capable of stubbornness, but so were they. He was nearly ready to give up on the idea, scheming other ways to leave the tower without JARVIS reporting it, when Barton had intervened.

Everyone save for the Soldier and Lucky had left the room. He could hear their muttered voices but could not make out the words. He remained seated, petting the dog's fur. How strange that a creature as horrible as himself was still capable of providing so much happiness to Lucky. There was innocence in that ignorance that he may have once possessed before he became human and terrible again.

When the others had returned, it was announced that Barton and Romanoff would take him to DC for one afternoon.

The cigarette tastes like nothing. The smoke is an irritant to his throat and sinuses, though it is not debilitating. He flicks the ash out the window. The pack rests on the seat between himself and Romanoff, next to the lighter. It is white. He remembers packs from the 1940s that were green. He also remembers that Steve was asthmatic and Barnes was even more of a monster for smoking anywhere near him.

The cigarettes are from a gas station they stopped at earlier in the morning. Barton and Romanoff had gone inside and the Soldier was not permitted to be out of their sight, so he had entered as well. He had been staring at the locked case of tobacco products, hovering on the edge of a memory, when Barton walked up beside him with a small brown bag labeled _M &M's._

"Do you remember these?" Barton had asked. "You might have had them in the war."

"I remember these." He'd tilted his head toward the cigarettes.

"Not a great habit to get into," Barton said. "But you're probably not gonna like them anyway—stuff like that was stronger in your day."

Now, slightly over halfway to DC, he has smoked the cigarette nearly down to the filter. There is a small knife in the pocket of his jeans; he offered to help Pepper with the dishes the night prior and slipped it away while she was rinsing a plate. He does not know why she was washing dishes manually when the tower has a machine for that. If it proves necessary, the knife will allow him to escape back to HYDRA. He does not want to stab Barton or Romanoff or anyone, really. Not while he is aware of doing so. He does not want to be aware of anything ever again.

He has nowhere to extinguish the cigarette. The Soldier is not sure if he is meant to throw the end out the window, or if he risks setting a fire by doing so. He presses the lit end against his palm to extinguish it before disposal. The skin itches and stings under the heat, and over the scent of smoke he is again reminded of barbeque. It is not an unpleasant sensation.

Romanoff grabs the cigarette from his hand before he can register that her eyes are on him. She moves like someone he remembers shooting, but that woman was redheaded. Romanoff is blonde. Why does he think of red when he sees her?

The Soldier knows without asking that he will not be permitted the rest of the pack. There is no disappointment in the knowledge; whatever solace others find in smoking, he did not experience it.

"How did you get through the metal detectors last time?" Romanoff asks once they are outside the Smithsonian.

The metal detectors were on the exterior entrances only, and they did not sit directly flush against the doors. They were slightly inside, with a gap between the door frame and the detectors. He had waited for the guards to be distracted by something and slipped through that gap. It was not difficult for a _призрак_.

It is even less difficult this time, with Barton and Romanoff aiding in creating a diversion.

They wander through the exhibit and the Soldier tries not to let his hands shake. He cannot bear to look at images of Steve without feeling the compulsion to race back to the tower, confess his lies, and beg for forgiveness or punishment. He cannot look at images of Barnes without the desire to destroy every picture and mention of that undermining liar. So he stares at the text throughout, trying not to comprehend any of the words he scans.

He does not have to lie when Barton asks if he remembers Barnes's rifle, because he does not. He could fire it flawlessly, he is sure, but he has no memory of using the gun.

They are midway through the exhibit when Barton and Romanoff exchange glances and once again seem to converse without words. "I'll be back in a few minutes," Romanoff says, more to the Soldier than to Barton. "There's something I need to get."

She does not head off in the direction of the gift shop. Had she meant something from the car, or is this a test?

It doesn't matter. His window of opportunity is limited and striking now, when he only has one minder, improves his chances of success. He can knock the man unconscious. He knows where to cut tendons to make the body collapse as if paralyzed. The damage from either method can be healed and in the meantime, the fall will draw attention, create a distraction while the Soldier exits.

"M&M?" Barton offers, taking the bag from his pocket.

The Soldier does not speak. His fingers clench around the handle of the knife in his jeans.

"You don't have to stab me," Barton says. "I'm not going to stop you."

It feels as if the floor has given out below the Soldier. He blinks. "How—"

"JARVIS saw you take the knife. He reported it as soon as you were out of earshot."

The Soldier swallows. Steve had left before that point yesterday, but if he has been informed, he may have abandoned his mission and come to DC. If the Soldier sees him now, he does not know that he will have the strength to run. "Does Steve—"

"He doesn't know. Sam wanted to tell him, but Nat and I convinced him not to."

Convinced him not to? And Barton said he would not stop the Soldier. It makes no sense. Barton is an Avenger. Romanoff was a target of HYDRA, and he is close to her. Why would he help to facilitate the Soldier's return? "You are letting me leave?"

"I'm letting you have a head start." Barton sighs. His eyes look far off, injured, dragged down. "See, I know what it's like to try and pull a life back together. And to want to just run away from it all. I know that point when everything's hopeless and you think you have to go do something stupid because every other option hurts too much. That's where you're at. We can all see something's up, and Sam and Steve only agreed to let us take you here because they thought we'd prevent whatever you were planning."

"But you aren't preventing it?" The Soldier had thought he was becoming better at understanding humanity. Now he feels as lost as he did on his first day away from HYDRA.

"I trust you." The bruises on Barton's features are more faded now than they were when the Soldier first met him, and that makes his face all the more open and honest.

"You shouldn't."

"Someone has to, if you can't trust yourself." His hand comes to rest on the Soldier's shoulder. The Soldier flinches, wants to shove him away, but he does not.

Steve had hugged the Soldier yesterday, before he left. He had pulled the Soldier very close and stroked his hair. "You're my best friend, Bucky. You know that?" he'd asked, and it had felt like being stabbed. This contact does not hurt that much, but it is still painful.

"I know how it feels, Bucky. To hate yourself so much for the things you've done that you can't sleep, can't look at yourself. When there's so much pain you think the only way to survive it is to stop feeling. But you'll surprise yourself with what you're capable of."

It was learning what he was capable of that convinced him to return to HYDRA. The Soldier does not speak.

"I'm letting you go because you're stronger than you think you are," Barton says. "When you have to make a choice, you'll make the right one."

"Goodbye," the Soldier says. "Take care of Steve."

"Here." Barton is still holding the bag of chocolate. "These were for you. Save me the red ones, would you?"

"I am not coming back," the Soldier says.

Barton takes his hand and places the bag within it. "All the more reason for you to hold onto it, then."

When the Soldier leaves, glancing over his shoulder is inevitable. He must do so to effectively avoid pursuit, but it aches in his chest even after Barton is well out of his line of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...[O]n rare occasions he thinks they were dealt with by restricting his access to the source of the error": this is a reference to the original Winter Soldier comics. In one of those, the Soldier was assigned a mission on the east coast of the US and went off grid in Brooklyn for a while. His handlers' response was to stop sending him on US missions.
> 
> The cigarettes in a green carton that Winter is remembering are [Elliott's Asthma Cigarettes.](http://hardluckasthma.blogspot.com/2012/01/history-of-back-door-bronchodilators.html) Up until the 1950s and the invention of the inhaler, one of the treatments for asthma were cigarettes that contained things like belladonna and cannabis rather than tobacco. These herbs have a mild dilating effect on the bronchial tubes, which helped with breathing. Over the counter treatments like asthma cigarettes would also have been especially popular in Steve's day, because the medical community considered asthma a psychosomatic illness at the time and recommended that those who suffered from it be treated for depression. Tobacco itself has also been used as an asthma treatment throughout history; it used to be thought that snorting it would help clear out a person's airways.
> 
>  _M &M's_ began production in 1941, after Forrest Mars, Sr. observed soldiers in the Spanish Civil War consuming chocolate that had been coated in a shell of tempered chocolate to prevent them from melting, and came up with the idea of chocolate pellets in a candy shell. [During WWII, _M &M's_ were sold just to the military.](http://images.huffingtonpost.com/2012-10-26-1942MMswarposterarmy1.jpg) This is why they were designed to "melt in your mouth, not in your hand": so that they could be carried around by soldiers and in and out of trenches and whatnot without becoming inedible.
> 
> If you were wondering why JARVIS reported the knife but not the self-harm with the razor, I don't think he would be designed to see into bathrooms for modesty purposes.
> 
> For those reading this on a mobile or who cannot otherwise access the hover text, translations for the Russian are as follows:
> 
> призрак = ghost


	49. Chapter 49

It is warm inside the burn unit. The Soldier is not sure if the heat is by design or a result of the door of the hospital room being closed, but whatever the reason the air is almost stifling. He considers removing his jacket, but the temperature is of no current danger to him and he doesn't want to waste the time to do so. It is also possible that the heat is at least partially the result of emotional overload, and in that circumstance the layers over his body make no difference.

Rumlow is unconscious. He is cuffed by the ankles to the hospital bed. His ankles and feet are not burned; his boots must have protected the skin there while he was trapped and smoldering in the debris of the Triskelion. The rest of his legs, his arms, hands, neck, and his face are bandaged. The bandaging may extend below the hospital gown; the Soldier does not check.

"Wake up," the Soldier says.

Rumlow does not wake.

Outside the door, the Soldier is certain, on the other side of the windows to the hospital hallway, curtains drawn, there are police officers or government agents. He came in through the exterior window. There was no one guarding the fire escape, which would suggest that the security in the hall is periodically checking inside the room in case someone enters as the Soldier had. The Soldier can disable anyone who comes in, but he does not want to unless there is no other recourse.

He needs to stop thinking in terms of want. When he returns to HYDRA, wanting will not be allowed.

"Wake up." The Soldier is trembling, waves of relief and fear crashing and mingling throughout his being. It is not unlike the sensations when he was first reunited with Steve in the tower.

Rumlow does not wake.

The Soldier's left hand, the only steady part of him, closes on Rumlow's shoulder. His grip is firm, but not tight. He does not want to break bones or inadvertently slough off the skin beneath the bandaging. Vaguely, he knows of treatment for burns: for the minor ones, cool water and sterile bandages are utilized. With severe burns, the dead flesh is brushed or cut away. He believes new skin may be stapled in its place.

He wonders how it feels to wear someone else's skin. Does it change the person beneath it? He imagines cutting away his flesh and stitching a decent human in its place, inch by inch. The Soldier doubts it would take. He is rotten inside and the infection would seep into the skin, decaying it from underneath.

The commanding officer does not stir when the Soldier pushes on his shoulder. A second, more forceful push also provokes no response.

Rumlow is connected to multiple IVs and the Soldier turns his attention to the bags the lines lead up to. Perhaps something there is keeping him unconscious, the way cryostasis would put the Soldier to sleep. The names on some bags are familiar: saline is a substance in tears, he knows, and is probably not the thing keeping the man unconscious. Some of the fluids are antibiotics, the same sort he was given in the tower. When he reaches the unfamiliar substances, he closes the clamps on those lines to prevent the liquids from continuing to drip into his commander's body.

The Soldier relocates to a corner of the room which is not immediately visible from the doorway and waits.

He is shaking.

He half-expects to hear or see the hallucination of Steve again, begging him to return to the tower. He waits for the compulsion to seek out Barton and Romanoff and ask to go back to Manhattan. Neither occurs. He is not without fear—fear of punishment, fear of losing his horrible and yet compelling autonomy—but they are good people and they do not deserve him, and even his subconscious appears to acknowledge that fact.

Rumlow stirs. There is a sound in his throat, low and weak. A sound of pain.

It had not occurred to the Soldier that the substances keeping Rumlow asleep may have also kept him from feeling the burns. He had never been given pain relief—what was the use, when his body would repair itself so rapidly?—so the thought of it had not crossed his mind. He does not want to hurt Rumlow. His stomach clenches as he steps into the commanding officer's line of sight.

Rumlow's breathing is erratic but he falls silent when he spots the Soldier. His eyes are wide, tense, thinking. The Soldier can imagine his thoughts. The helicarriers went down. The strike team failed as the asset failed, and the blame for the team's failure rests on Rumlow's shoulders. And now he wakes to find the asset staring down at him. It could mean rescue. It could mean execution.

The Soldier tries to recall the words the doctors would say to help him when he was coming out of the ice. "You're safe," he says. "Everything is all right. No harm will come to you."

He is still thinking, the Soldier can tell, but the apprehension is lessened. Or perhaps it has simply been replaced with pain. He feels another pang of guilt for bringing harm to his commanding officer, but pain brings order—HYDRA is broken and needs order now more than ever—and it is hard to be upset when his entire being is overcome with relief at this return to the familiar.

"Water." Rumlow's voice is hoarse. It is an order and a test, to see if the Soldier will obey him.

And of course the Soldier will obey him. Had the command been to throw himself out the window, he still would have obeyed. To have orders again, _purpose_ , to have a task to fulfill without even thinking or feeling—his legs nearly give out from under him.

But they do not, because he is fulfilling an order and that would be counterproductive.

There is a tray attached to Rumlow's bed and a paper cup rests on it. He takes it, fills it with water, returns to the bedside. His metal hand, cool and hopefully soothing, works its way behind his commander's head, gently lifting. He holds the cup to the man's lips the way Rumlow had once held a mug of soup to the asset's.

"I can remove you from this location," he says as Rumlow drinks. "Any safe house or HYDRA base you are aware of, I can take you there. Either now or I can return with others to make the extraction smoother. Tell them I came to you, I listen to you. You will not be punished." The strike team may have failed, but to have such command of the asset will be valuable to HYDRA. The asset is not programmed to seek out other field agents; such a strong connection would have to be imprinted and that is only done for handlers. It will make Rumlow special, valuable. It may make him the Soldier's next assigned handler.

As an asset, he did not like things. That was not his place. But he was allowed preferences: his rifle, a general plan of how to proceed in a mission—off the field he followed orders, but on it, everyone mostly kept out of his way—a choice of the weapons strapped about him. He thinks he preferred some agents over others, and he believes he preferred Rumlow.

From what the Soldier can remember, the commander is efficient and skilled. He is not necessarily kind but that is not required, and any cruelty on Rumlow's part never registered until the asset was a person anyway. And he was not always cold. He saved the Soldier from death by hypothermia and gave him soup. He would stroke the Soldier's hair if he fulfilled an objective properly. Once, the Soldier hazily recalls, he had been bleeding and Rumlow wrapped the injury rather than waiting for the medical team to arrive. He had patted the asset's shoulder on one mission, after the target had been eliminated, and had said, "Perfect shot."

Above all else, Rumlow is familiar. The Soldier is capable of returning to HYDRA without him, but there is some comfort in the thought that a recognizable face will be accompanying him, even if he will forget ever knowing it.

"Is this plan acceptable?" he asks once the cup is empty, placing it on the tray and carefully lowering Rumlow's head back to the pillow.

The man moves as if to nod before he freezes, a sound aborted in his throat as tension shoots through his body. "Yeah." His voice is faint, eyes still calculating. "Where've you been?"

He has not asked the date and seems aware of the passage of time since the helicarriers fell. At least some of Rumlow's time in this hospital has been spent conscious. He was likely interrogated regarding HYDRA's plans and his role. "Manhattan. With Captain America and his allies." Rumlow tenses and he adds, "They do not accompany me. I left."

"You left to come here." His voice is strained, but there is a twitch to his face under the bandaging and this is the most light his eyes have had since waking.

" _Да._ Yes." This commander does not like Russian, he reminds himself.

Rumlow laughs. It is a harsh sound cut short with a gasp of breath and a curse, but he has made his commander happy, so the Soldier is happy as well.

"C'mere." The fingers of the hand nearest to the Soldier twitch. It is a stilted movement and he wonders how much mobility the digits retain. Scar tissue is immobilizing.

The Soldier's breathing catches in his chest as he realizes what Rumlow is indicating. His eyes are hot with contentment, legs weak, and he allows himself to sink to his knees, pushing his head gently against that hand.

His hair is stroked. It is a jerky, halting motion that does not match the touches he remembers, a process he did not realize he missed until yesterday, but it is soft and soothing and requires no thought or feeling on his part. He leans into the contact, eyes leaking. There is a noise low in his throat, shaky and choked with relief.

The angle is awkward and the Soldier shifts, pulling himself up and kneeling on the bed itself, head resting on the sheets, pressing against Rumlow's hand with all the force he dares exert. It feels perfect. It feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [Kana_Go's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kana_Go/pseuds/Kana_Go) art of this chapter here: [Like home](http://kanago.deviantart.com/art/Like-home-499472394).
> 
> This is probably obvious, but just on the off chance it isn't, I don't think Brock Rumlow is an upstanding individual. Winter, on the other hand, who has yet to fully grasp that he was abused and that there is a difference between kindness and maintenance, is currently of the opinion that anyone who can give him some sort of contentment without wanting him to be human must be the greatest person ever.
> 
> I do find Rumlow as a character fascinating, because I feel like I can see a glimmer of decent person in there, and I feel he must have had some good qualities for Cap to look as betrayed as he did when he realized what was about to happen in the elevator. I don't think any of this absolves him, of course, or even renders him necessarily redeemable, but it does make him extremely interesting as a villain to me.
> 
> For anyone else inexplicably fascinated by the character of Brock Rumlow, I must recommend two stories: the first is Imbecamiel's brilliant ["Brock Rumlow has a conscience (He finds it inconvenient)" series,](http://archiveofourown.org/series/109724) which details Rumlow's various experiences working with the Winter Soldier throughout his time at HYDRA. The second is bofurrific's equally excellent _[Choking on your Alibis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1912893),_ which was written specifically for me and is nicely humanizing without justifying, I think. Warning: that fic revolves around self-harm.


	50. Chapter 50

It takes a long time for the Soldier to realize he is in pain.

He doesn't feel it at first, doesn't feel anything apart from the friction of bandaged fingers stroking against his scalp, and the slow, faint itch of strands of hair slipping loose from the ponytail, forward and across his face. His body is overcome with satisfaction, almost shaking, and his mind is wonderfully empty. There is no guilt, no memory, no desire to be anything more than what his programming demands. There is only a hand at his hair, and he does not shy away from any touch of HYDRA's, hard or soft. Everything is as it should be.

Until it isn't.

The knowledge of pain arrives in increments so small and slow that, by the time he realizes the sensation, it is as if it has been in his mind from the start.

His hands are clenched, fingers pressing into his palms. It is the pose he has held since he first got onto the bed, initially to focus the tension throughout him. Then the tension had melted and the position had become about support and grounding, to keep him from entirely collapsing onto the mattress, limp and overcome with contentment. There is pain at the center of his right palm, where the tip of his middle finger presses the skin. It is a mild sting, more of a discomfort than an actual hurt. He only notices it at all because it is the one part of him not flooded with relief.

The Soldier nearly sits up to assess the damage, but he remembers the source of the feeling before he can investigate. After Romanoff had pulled the cigarette away from his hand, there had been a small, circular burn forming on the skin. It had blistered by the time they reached the Smithsonian. The blister is gone now, but the spot remains tender to the touch. He is almost surprised to still feel it, but hands have so many pain receptors in comparison to other areas of—

He jolts up, retaining the presence of mind to shift back in the process so his head will not jar Rumlow's wrist as he straightens. The Soldier stares at the commander's bandaged hand, eyes wide. He is cold. Rumlow does not heal at an accelerated rate. Rumlow's burns are far more severe than anything a cigarette could accomplish, and Rumlow was in pain just lying there. "Is this hurting you?"

The commander is tense again. The Soldier should not have sat up so quickly; the movement must have read as a threat. He is still, quiet, and the worry drains from Rumlow's eyes as confusion works its way into the space left behind.

"Your hand," the Soldier clarifies. "Did it hurt to—I can function without the sensation if it is detrimental to you." He is not meant to question anything HYDRA cares to give him, but how can he knowingly cause pain to a handler? It's wrong.

Rumlow is still silent, still staring.

"Do you need more water?" He can think of nothing else to ask. The Soldier should punish himself, but he has not been ordered to do so and what if the sound of the reprimand draws others into the room?

"Christ, they did a number on you," Rumlow mutters, and only then does the Soldier understand.

As an asset, he was not designed to feel empathy. Even if he pulled an agent out of harm's way during a mission, he never stopped to assess injuries or inquire as to wellbeing. It did not matter. Only the mission mattered. His commander is stunned speechless by the realization of how far from his programming the Soldier has slipped in so brief a time period. He is a disappointment. The Soldier flushes. He wants to apologize, but weapons do not make amends.

The wipes and rewriting cannot come fast enough.

It seems strange now, to view empathy as a malfunction. But of course it is. It must be. How can he help to save the world if he is distracted by compassion for individuals?

He has not been told to kneel down and allow the contact to resume so he remains in place, waiting for an order.

But Rumlow is quiet, eyes locked onto the Soldier. He feels dissected by the stare, as if he is a dossier the commander is using to formulate a plan of attack, or as if he is a rifle in the process of field stripping. "What the hell happened on the helicarriers?" He may be asking out of curiosity. He may be asking to prevent the situation from reoccurring.

It is likely a combination of both. Rumlow is clever, and clever people are inquisitive.

The Soldier realizes that the phrase "the hell" will be erased from his mind before he ever comprehends its meaning. "I remembered Steve Rogers."

"Right after the wipe?" A tongue clicks against teeth, a little shake of the head. Another small, harsh laugh. "What, did he guilt trip you into remembering? Make a speech about the price of freedom? Cap's good at that."

Right after the wipe? The Soldier does not tilt his head, motionless and waiting as an asset is meant to be. He remembers waking in the chair and receiving the briefing on Steve before he was sent to the Triskelion hangar. He remembers nothing before that. Rumlow speaks as if the wipe and the remembering ought to be connected; was he remembering Steve before he heard his voice on the helicarrier? Was he hallucinating him even then?

Returning to HYDRA is supposed to empty his mind. If they cannot do that, what use does he have? It doesn't matter how perfectly a weapon strikes; if it is always on the verge of a malfunction, the weapon is worthless.

He cannot speak, bile rising in the back of his throat. Rumlow does not seem to mind. The Soldier thinks his questions were rhetorical anyway.

An asset must be perfectly loyal and focused. Willing to do whatever is asked, be it sacrificing one's self or fighting lions—what are lions?—without hesitation. What is he meant to do, return to HYDRA while knowing that he is broken and liable to jeopardize their operation, and simply hope that this time around, he will be better?

Assets do not hope. They do not laugh or smile or eat soup. They do not do a lot of things.

He should not remember those things to miss them. But if his memory of Steve was more than a singular programming failure, what is to keep him from feeling all the other losses? And if he remembers things he likes, what will keep him from knowing that he dislikes killing?

He imagines a life spent silent and obedient, hating every second of his time spent conscious. Perhaps hating every second altogether, if there are dreams in the cryo-sleep he is not remembering now.

It is no more than he deserves. If anything, the suffering is not sufficient. But he doesn't _want_ to suffer, no matter how much he has earned it. It is not his place to want. There is another sound at the back of the Soldier's throat, this one signaling distress rather than relief.

"You okay, kid?" Rumlow asks.

"Kid?" Why is he being called a goat? Is it to remind him of his subservient position?

"Soldier," the commander amends. "You don't look your age."

Kid. Child. The definition slides into place. He is ninety-eight

[ _I am ninety-eight it is 2014 I no longer have missions I never have to go back_ ]

and he is old enough to have sired Rumlow's father. But his body is at best two years older than it was when Barnes was declared dead at twenty-eight. He was an asset for seventy years and a person for not even thirty.

He has failed at both roles, but objectively the Soldier believes he is worse as an asset, given that he had more time in that position. And an asset's mind is simpler than a person's.

The average life expectancy for an American is around eighty years, he thinks. James Buchanan Barnes had not reached half of that age before he ceased to be human. James Buchanan Barnes was terrible and did not deserve to live.

 _But._ The Soldier bites his lip until he tastes blood. But what?

But Barnes was little more than a kid. Is it possible to improve as a person now?

If not, there are razors or ice or immolation. Humanity is tempting. Far more tempting than the risk of regret in his mind while he is making the life fade from another's eyes. Yet he is not deserving: he is a liar, a killer, and a poor friend. He does not even deserve life as an asset; he deserves the coffin that may or may not be buried beneath Barnes's headstone.

People can choose, Sam had said. They can choose to be selfish. And selfishness is possibly the most minor of transgressions on the Soldier's soul.

Does he have a soul?

"Soldier?" Rumlow is speaking. His voice sounds far away.

The Soldier raises his eyes. His gaze is the only steady part of him; everything else has begun to tremble. He wants to stand, but he thinks his legs may give out. "I—I'm sorry."

"For what?" There is caution in Rumlow's voice and perhaps on his face as well, though the Soldier cannot see enough through the bandaging to be sure. It makes sense, his trepidation. Assets do not apologize.

"I c-can't—I'm not—I—" His fists clench as though the motion can wring words out. "I ain't goin' back."

"What?"

The words are foreign but they are also his own. They fit in his mouth as easily as his rifle slides into his hands. "I…ain't goin' back."

The Soldier stands. His legs do not give out. He is not sure if they are still shaking, because his body has gone numb. "I'm sorry," he says, because without him Rumlow will not be able to escape custody. He will not be able to return to HYDRA or avoid arrest for his involvement. "I—I'm really, really sorry, I am, but it's better this way, don't you see? I—I'm bad. I'm malfunctioning. You deserve better."

If Rumlow comprehends, if he takes any solace in the reassurance, it does not reflect in his eyes.

The Soldier turns his own gaze to the floor. "I can—maybe—amnesty? I know the Avengers—if I ask, they might…You're a good commander and would have been a good handler and if I ask, they might offer amnesty?"

"Soldier." He does not see the Rumlow's expression; he fears that if he looks back up, he will come apart. Rumlow's voice is firm and authoritative and part of the Soldier wants to snap to attention and obey.

"James," he says, moving, walking around the bed. "My name is James now, maybe. And I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—but I think I might be a person. And if I'm a person, I can't be your asset. I'd be bad at it. I'd disappoint you. And I—you're a good person, I think. I don't want you to be disappointed." His shaking fingers close on the IV lines he'd blocked off, removing the clamps. "I don't want you to hurt. Do you understand?"

He meets the man's stare then. Rumlow looks as if he wants to tear the Soldier's throat out between his jaws. The reaction is reasonable. The Soldier is being horribly selfish and he nearly kneels to enable the commander to strike him, but that would further aggravate Rumlow's injuries, so he stays in place. It takes what feels like an eternity for Rumlow to slip back under the influence of the drugs. The Soldier's hand twitches—maybe it is better as an asset, maybe he has this all wrong—but he does not replace the clamps on the lines no matter how strong the urge.

Pausing at Rumlow's bedside, he very gently strokes a hand through his commander's hair before he moves to the window.

"I'm not offering that asshole amnesty," Barton says. He is sitting on the stairs of the fire escape, just low enough that he was not visible from the hospital bed. "You can try making puppy eyes at Cap, if you want."

He pauses halfway out of the window, staring. _Cap._ He had almost forgotten Steve, almost forgotten all of them in the rush of potential humanity. "You said you wouldn't follow me."

Barton stretches his legs out before he stands. "I said I'd give you a head start. Stay there, let's go through the door. Car's closer that way."

"There are guards."

"Nat told them to take a break." Barton slips through the window, sliding it closed after him. He does not spare a glance toward Rumlow's sleeping form. "We figured this was probably where you wanted to go when you asked about DC. This, or some hidden base."

He had more stealth as an asset than as a person, he thinks. He was less conspicuous. "If I had decided to leave for HYDRA, would you have let me?"

"Hell no. But I told you you'd make the right choice when it came down to it."

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the bag of M&M's. "These are yours."

"The red ones are mine," Barton corrects, waving the bag away. "You eat the rest."

"Okay." James slides one of the candies, blue, out of the bag. It is sweet enough to bring tears to his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that Winter's thought process here comes across as realistic; I stressed for a while over what I could use to bring him back toward humanity. I knew I didn't want him to be swayed by memories of Steve, but rather something that came from within. I also didn't want him to decide maybe it's better to be a person and instantly have everything fixed; his worldviews are still rather skewed, and even a decision as positive as "I want to be a person, not a tool" wouldn't resolve all that instantaneously.


	51. Chapter 51

"I'm not offering that bastard amnesty," Romanoff says. She is leaning against the wall of the hospital hallway and is the first thing James sees when Barton opens the door. "And I wouldn't ask Steve about it either if I were you. He's going to be bad enough when he finds out you almost went back."

James nearly asks if they have to tell Steve that, but he is trying to be a better human being than Bucky Barnes, so he cannot be a liar. He also nearly asks what makes Rumlow less redeemable than the Soldier when they were both working to fulfill HYDRA's goals. But his mouth is full of chocolate and he does not speak.

Romanoff reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ball chain with two dog tags hanging from it. "They're yours," she says, pressing them into his metal hand. "From the Smithsonian. I thought you might need some help remembering that you're more than a weapon, but it sounds like you have that covered, so you can do whatever you like with them."

He studies the tags. Then he studies Romanoff. "You stole them?"

"You just committed a breaking and entering with the intent of taking someone out of police custody."

James has no argument against that. He wants to throw the tags away or stuff them into his pocket but decides instead to wear them around his neck, under the shirt. They are cold against his skin and a reminder of the person that he was. The person he does not want to become again.

The knife that he took from Stark's kitchen is still in his jeans. He removes it and extends it to Barton, handle out. The archer is already so injured and Romanoff's ankle is still bandaged and he had planned to inflict more harm on them to escape to HYDRA. Whatever potential for human decency James has within him, it is yet to be realized. He should go before he can make any other terrible decisions that threaten his companions, but he can't go because Barton's hand is suddenly on his shoulder and James is still holding the red M&M's.

"Thanks," Barton says. "We should get lunch. I don't know about you, but life-altering decisions make me kinda hungry, personally."

"I don't know what I like." Well, there is pizza and soup, but James thinks that other people grow tired of eating the same thing time and again.

"I do." Barton has pocketed the knife and taken out his phone. "Cap refused to send us off without a list."

*

Hamburgers are something that Bucky Barnes liked and once James bites into his, he understands why. Barton let him see the list: it is on the man's phone, but were it on paper, James thinks it may span multiple sheets. Some items are familiar, like potato soup and ham sandwiches. Some, such as sauerkraut and apple sauce, are foreign.

There is also a list of dislikes. Borscht is on it. So is espresso, though James thinks that Bucky Barnes had not disliked espresso at all.

"How is it?" Romanoff asks. She is dipping fries into something called ketchup, so James takes the condiment and puts it on his plate as well. Red again. It always comes back to red with her.

"I think I shot you," he says. His voice is low to keep anyone from staring their way. He doesn't particularly feel shame in remembering it because he is sure the memory is wrong. "But your hair was red, so it wasn't you."

"It was me." Her tone lacks anger. She does not even look up from her plate. "You shot me twice."

James stares. Firstly, because the thought of shooting someone other than Steve twice without killing them seems impossible. Secondly, because if he strains his mind, he almost remembers the concept of disguises and the thought of wearing false hair over one's own head. His hand drops the fries back onto the plate, then reaches up to tug on Romanoff's locks.

She bats his wrist away before he can make contact. "It's my hair. It's dyed."

"Died?"

"Well, bleached. You never used dye?" She shakes her head, then brushes her hair back behind her shoulders as if to protect it from him. "Sorry, that's a stupid question. It's not like you'd remember if you had."

"You can…make hair change colors?" James asks. He feels as though he ought to be apologizing for shooting her twice, but how can he focus on apologies when the ability exists to take red hair and turn it blonde?

Romanoff smiles. Her eyes look like she is laughing but it's a laugh that doesn't make him flush. "Yes, you can."

"Any color?" He can remember women, elderly, with a bluish tint to white hair. Whether it is an asset memory or a Barnes memory, he is not sure.

She nods, begins to explain the process, but then Barton has his phone at the ready, pulling up images of hair colors that could never be naturally occurring. James nearly returned to HYDRA before he could learn about putting colors in hair. Humanity was definitely the right choice.

"I'm sorry I shot you," he says.

"It wasn't you." Romanoff sips her drink. It's called Coke and it's the same thing they ordered for him. James isn't sure if Barnes had liked carbonated beverages, but he has not had one in seventy years and it burns in his throat more than it tastes of anything. "But thank you."

"Cosmetology and gunshot wounds aside," Barton says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, "we need to talk about your next move, Bucky."

His next planned move had been to break Rumlow out of the hospital and then go where the commander ordered. But that option is now off the table. He supposes his next step is to become a better human being than Bucky Barnes, but that is a long term goal and a vaguely defined one at that. "I don't know."

"See, and that's a problem." Barton's own meal sits untouched; his focus has been on James from the moment they came in. "Because, and no offense—you made a good decision this time but the one before it was awful—you make choices like a yo-yo."

"A what?"

"A thing that flips around," Barton supplies. "Sort of like how yesterday you decided to go back to being a mindless weapon, and today you decided you want to be a person. You did decide the HYDRA thing yesterday, right? Please tell me you weren't planning that for weeks."

"Yesterday." James considers adding that he made the choice while petting Lucky, but he fails to see how that would be relevant and he isn't about to place the blame for his decisions on an innocent dog.

"Why?" Romanoff leans slightly forward. Her eyes are clear and sharp but he does not feel judged by them, only examined. "Was it longing for the familiar?"

He nods. Then shakes his head. "Things were easier before, I think. But also…Bucky Barnes—me—I was a bad person. And I thought I'd rather not _be_ a person than be bad."

"What made you bad?" Barton's voice is soft. His bandaged fingers, which had been twisting the wrapper of his beverage's straw, still.

"I was angry Steve was Captain America and not sick all the time. He didn't need me." James drops his gaze to his lap where his metal hand rests, away from the eyes of strangers. "And I…you were brainwashed for three days and I felt bad for me instead of you. Because I was a tool longer."

Barton's left hand, the one with the splinted wrist, appears in his line of sight and intertwines with James's metal hand. "None of that's bad. It's human."

James shakes his head. He doesn't need false reassurance; he just needs to be better.

"When Nat broke me out of Loki's mind control," Barton says, "I said things. Things that were dismissive to what I knew she'd been through. It's human. It's not pretty, but it's not evil." His hand does not move.

"That's different."

"How so?"

"You're a good person," James says. He doesn't raise his head at Barton's sigh.

But he does look up when Romanoff speaks. "Look, whatever you want to think of yourself, your decisions don't exist in a vacuum. The choices that you make affect Steve as well. They affect all your friends. So let's not have a repeat of today the next time you remember anything less than shining about yourself, all right? You need to talk about these things to someone."

He nods.

"Promise."

"I promise."

"Good." Her attention returns to her plate. "So what's it going to be? Are we headed back to the tower, or should we find some other residence while you're sorting things out?"

"Steve's going to be angry."

"That's a given." Barton's hand slides out of his and for the first time since they sat down, the archer touches his food. "There's gonna be a lecture. Such a lecture. And that'll happen no matter where we go. Not even gonna try to prevent that, sorry."

"I think I want to go back." He is not sure he can stay indefinitely, not sure if they will even want him when they learn the sort of person Barnes truly was, but to go elsewhere without even stopping in seems wrong. Cowardly.

"Okay." Romanoff is wiping a napkin at her lips, but James can hear her smile. "We can head home as soon as we're through here."

James pauses to think, then slowly shakes his head. "I…I think there are things I want to do first."

"As long as they don't involve visiting more of your old work associates, fine by me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation with Natasha that Clint is referring to is the one that occurred in _The Avengers_ , right after Clint was waking up post-cognitive recalibration (emphasis mine):
> 
> Natasha: Clint, you're gonna be all right.
> 
> Clint: _You know that? Is that what you know?_ I got…I gotta go in. I gotta flush him out.
> 
> Natasha: You gotta level out, that's gonna take time.
> 
> Clint: _You don't understand. Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Take you out and stuff something else in? You know what it's like to be unmade?_
> 
> Natasha: _You know that I do._
> 
> On a side note completely unrelated to anything, now that I've begun referring to him as James in the narration, I've had the song "[My Name is James](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lY79wyfOKSo)" from _James and the Giant Peach_ stuck in my head whenever I write. The lyrics are oddly fitting despite (or perhaps because of) their simplicity.


	52. Chapter 52

There is a knock on the door and James sets down the paint brush.

He is allowed to have the door shut now. Last night when they returned to the tower, Sam had asked him to keep it open. James thinks that either Romanoff or Barton told Sam about the cigarette because this morning they took away everything in his room with a sharp edge, as well as replacing the razor in the bathroom with an electric one. After that, they said he could close the door. He is not sure what difference it made—JARVIS can see him whether or not the door is shut—but it put them at ease, so he agreed.

Another knock. Dum-E chirps, JARVIS pauses the song that was playing, and James stands. It can't be Steve. Steve will not be home until tonight, and from what James has been told about Steve lectures, they do not begin with knocking.

Stark is in the hallway and he is speaking before the door is open more than a crack. "Hey 3PO, JARVIS tells me Dum— _what_."

James waits for elaboration. Stark is speechless. It is a look James cannot recall seeing on him before. It is also funny.

"I," Stark manages after twenty seconds. The word sounds raw, as though he has been recently strangled. "What the hell did you do to your hair?"

"It's dyed." Also bleached, because yesterday when he'd asked for dye Romanoff had said his hair was too dark for it to show well. While Barton and Sam were making the room safe this morning, Romanoff had led him to the bathroom to put stinging chemicals and foil on his hair. But the effects of the bleach are hidden by the dye, so he doesn't mention it.

"I can see that, Sailor Mercury." Stark's voice is normal again; the man recovers quickly. "Why is it _blue_?"

"I like blue." James also likes green, but Romanoff had called that overkill. The nails of his right hand are green now as a compromise.

Stark shakes his head. "When Cap sees this you're in for _such_ a—"

"Lecture?"

"Reckoning."

James is not sure why changing the color of his hair would be a worse transgression than attempting to return to Steve's enemies. But he's not sure of a lot of things. "Would a piercing have been better?" he asks. Barton had suggested that last night, but he had laughed right after so James had dismissed it as humor.

That dumbfounded look is back on Stark's face, but his recovery time has improved. His eyes dart up and down James's body and then close as he shakes his head. "And, uh, just what would you pierce, Prince Albert?"

James taps the side of his nose. Without context, he remembers a woman with a stud in that spot. It had sparkled when the light caught it. In the room behind him, he can hear Dum-E whirring around.

"Yeah," Stark says. "Maybe wait to run that past Captain Overprotective so he won't kill us all for letting his kid go wild." He resumes staring at James's hair. "Actually, too late."

He likely would not go through with a piercing. It would make the affected area vulnerable to grabbing or tearing in combat, and James thinks his skin would heal around the jewelry rapidly. "What did you need?"

"I was in my lab trying to, you know, science, and my robot was missing," Stark says. "JARVIS tells me that he's with you."

"He is." Dum-E rolls to a stop behind James as he speaks, clicking and trilling and opening the door wider.

Stark has gone silent once more.

"We were painting," James says. Stark has probably gathered that from the white stars covering the robot from wheels to claw, but he feels he must say something.

Stark opens his mouth and closes it again.

"I was going to paint three stars," James adds, "but he insisted on fifty-six."

There is a sound in Stark's throat that might have become words had he not choked on it.

"You're angry?" James guesses. His stance shifts, ready to shield Dum-E with his body should it prove necessary.

"I'm _apoplectic_ ," Stark says. "I can't even _see_ straight, I'm—"

"I will take whatever punishment you want to inflict, Howard. But I cannot let harm come to my friend." James swallows, metal hand tensing on the doorknob. "I'm sorry."

Stark is giving him an even stranger look than when he'd seen the newly dyed hair. "What?"

"You can't decommission him or melt him into scrap or de…def...defen—"

"Defenestrate?"

"Yes, that. I will not allow it." He tries to sound as though he has the authority to allow anything.

"I would never." Stark's voice sounds angrier at that than it had at the stars. Angry and wounded?

"You have said eight times you plan to decommission him." He thinks back, counting in his mind. "That doesn't count specifics. Twice you said melting, once you said a hat rack, once donation to an elementary science fair, three times—"

"I wouldn't actually _do_ it." Stark shakes his head, then buries it in his hands. "Insults aren't always serious. They can be terms of endearment, all right?"

He thinks of Bucky Barnes calling Steve dumb. "They can?"

Stark raises his head. "Yeah."

"Oh." James is not sure how to process that, so he sets it aside for now. He feels the need to apologize although he thinks it should be Dum-E's choice whether or not he's covered in stars. "Howard, I—"

"And another thing," Stark says. He still looks wounded. "My name isn't Howard, okay? It's Tony."

"But they called you Howard at the Expo." James can remember it suddenly, vividly. "With the Cadillac."

"That was my _father_ ," Stark says. "Do you have any idea how _old_ I'd have to be to—"

James looks at the man. He and Steve are both in their nineties.

"Okay, _point._ But not everyone's been frozen in ice, Snow White. I'd look a hell of a lot older if I were my father."

"I thought you maybe had…" He can't think of the term for the procedure. "Face surgery."

Stark's face goes from gaping to maybe angry to possibly amused and then back to wounded very fast. "I'm Tony Stark. My father was Howard Stark. My dead father. My very dead father that y—that didn't even _look_ all that much like me, facial hair aside."

"Tony," James repeats.

"Yeah. Tony."

"I'm sorry your father is dead, Tony." It must have been the wrong thing to say because Tony goes stiff and looks away and makes another choking sound.

"Don't worry about it," he says after a long time. "Just…any other misconceptions I should clear up?"

"What's a disco stick?" James asks.

Tony no longer looks wounded. He looks the way James imagines his own face looks when he tries to comprehend things. "The hell?"

Without being prompted, JARVIS resumes the song that had paused when Tony knocked. It is a type of music called dance pop with a familiar woman's voice. "Disco stick," James repeats as the woman sings the phrase. "What does it mean?"

"It means you have terrible taste, Coraline."

*

It is night when Steve returns. He does not come straight to James; first Sam goes to meet him and then Barton and Romanoff are called out of the room. James supposes that their lectures—or punishments, or both—are different than his own. He is not sure how group reprimands work; as the asset, he was dealt with separately from the strike team.

He sits in one of the tower's common rooms, adrenaline in his stomach. It is the same room where he'd petted Lucky but there is no dog to provide a source of comfort now. James has no idea what a lecture entails; HYDRA never lectured that he can remember. They preferred corporal punishments. Steve won't hit him, he knows that, but James tried to run away. He lied. And Barton and Romanoff may be telling Steve how awful Bucky Barnes was.

What if Steve will not want him around anymore? What if Steve cannot trust him now that he's been dishonest? Steve never lies. How can he believe that James will improve as a person if James is already a proven liar?

He doesn't hear Steve enter because Steve does not make a sound, but he can sense his presence all the same. James turns, struggling not to stare at the floor.

He cannot read Steve's face.

"It grows out," James says, thinking of his hair and Tony's response to it.

"We need to talk," Steve says. He cannot read Steve's voice either.

James stands, reaches into his pocket. "Wait." If he is about to be cast out, he wants to make sure this is taken care of first. He walks to Steve, offering a thin silver chain. An oval pendant hangs from it; on the pendant is the image of a woman with her hands held out, light streaming from her fingers. She stands on a globe, crushing a snake under her heel. "This is yours."

Steve takes it, brow furrowed. "Why—"

"I think you're Catholic? Or were." James shrugs. "There was a big church in DC, by the hospital."

Steve flinches at that and James rushes to finish before he can be thrown out.

"They sold things. The lady who worked there, she said if you wear this, you go to heaven. I think you should go to heaven, someday. I think you deserve it."

Steve is quiet for a long time, maybe as long as Tony was when James apologized about his father before. His mouth begins to form words and stops several times before he speaks. "Where's yours?"

"Mine's different." He taps at where it lays under his shirt, beside his dog tags. His is of a man, someone named Jude.

"C'mere," Steve says, and then he is hugging James tight. It doesn't seem like a punishment. After several minutes, James shifts his arms in Steve's hold enough to hug back. He thinks he will not mind if this gesture continues all night.

But it doesn't, because Steve pulls away. "We still need to talk, Buck."

"All right." Maybe there will be hugs after the lecture. He doubts it, but his expectations have been so frequently subverted as of late that he dares to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3PO, or Threepio, is the shortened name of C3PO, the droid from _Star Wars._
> 
> Sailor Mercury of the anime _Sailor Moon_ has blue hair. Yes, that does imply that Tony's watched it. Hey, if Bruce Wayne's seen _Sailor Moon_ (I am not joking that is comics canon) why not Tony?
> 
> Coraline is the titular character of the novel by Neil Gaiman. In the film adaptation, she has hair dyed blue.
> 
> A Prince Albert piercing is a genital piercing. The memory of a woman with a nose piercing isn't meant to be anyone in particular – I figure that at some point over the last century, the odds are he's seen at least a few facial piercings.
> 
> The song in question is Lady Gaga's LoveGame, (in)famous for the lyrics "Let's have some fun this beat is sick/I wanna take a ride on your disco stick."
> 
> The church/store that James is referring to is the [National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception](http://www.nationalshrine.com/site/c.osJRKVPBJnH/b.4719297/k.BF65/Home.htm) in Washington, DC. The necklace he bought for Steve is a [Miraculous Medal.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miraculous_Medal#mediaviewer/File:Miraculous_medal.jpg) There is a long history behind it, but to summarize: in 1830 Saint Catherine Labouré had visions of the Virgin Mary, who showed her the image of the medal and tasked her with having it made, saying that those who wear the medal will receive special graces. There is a belief not officially endorsed by the Catholic Church that anyone who wears it in faith and devotion will go to heaven.
> 
> Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter has been delayed! I hope the one shot that I posted earlier this week was enough to tide everyone over in the meantime.

They move out of the common area and toward the floor of the tower where Steve sleeps. James isn't sure why; no one else was around the communal space and JARVIS and possibly Tony will be able to hear them wherever they go. Perhaps it provides the illusion of privacy. He thinks privacy is important to people, though he isn't sure why. HYDRA never allowed him to have it.

He ends up sitting on Steve's bed, which strikes him as a strange place for a punishment. If this is a punishment. James still isn't sure exactly what a lecture entails and decides that now would not be the best time to ask JARVIS to provide a definition. Steve stays standing, though he adjusts his position so that the exit is clear. James sits, silent, waiting for Steve to begin.

But Steve looks as lost as James feels. He begins to speak, breaking off as he shakes his head. His hands clench and he begins again. "Clint and Natasha told me what happened in DC. How you tried to go back to HYDRA."

James does not speak.

"They told me that you chose not to." Steve's weight shifts, as though he wants to pace or strike something but won't allow his body the movement. "That you decided on your own not to be a weapon again."

It's not entirely true—it's because of the things Rumlow said that James decided returning wouldn't help—but he is not going to contradict Steve. His friend is struggling to speak as it is without James adding complications.

"I—I'm proud of you, Bucky," Steve says, though he doesn't look it. James vaguely remembers the faces of his handlers on occasions when he had failed to fulfill an objective, and that is how Steve looks. In a way, that's exactly what has happened. His objective was to be Steve's best friend and like Barnes, he has failed. Unlike Barnes, this time Steve is aware of his shortcomings as well. "I'm really proud of you for that. I am."

He pauses, sighs. Their eyes meet and in that instant, James can see every year of Steve's true age reflected in his face, though his features remain young and smooth as always.

"But I won't say," Steve continues, "that I'm not angry."

There is pressure building throughout the room, stifling the air. James cannot tell if the force emanates from Steve or if it is forming at some point between them. Whatever the source, the strain is growing and James can only wait for it to burst free.

It isn't long before it does, and when the break occurs it comes from Steve.

"I was worried sick I never wanted to let you go in the first place I should never have allowed it unless I was with you but I _trusted them_ to take care of you and not to lie to my face I trusted _you_ to let us help you and to tell me or Sam or _someone_ if you were unhappy instead of waiting until I was halfway across the country to run back to the people who kept you locked up and treated like an animal."

He pauses. His lung capacity is such that even a sentence that long should not wind him, but Steve still looks out of breath. His eyes are wet.

James thinks that the odds of becoming a decent enough person to overcome these transgressions are very low.

"Why?" Steve says.

James is not sure if that question is rhetorical, so he waits.

" _Why_ would you ever go back to HYDRA? If I've—if I've done something wrong, something so _terrible_ that you have to leave, you can't even talk to me to tell me what it is, okay, but HYDRA? They tortured you, Buck. They turned you into a mindless weapon and they used you to hurt innocent people. How could you go back to that? How could you ever _choose_ to let yourself become their tool? Even if your own life doesn't matter to you, what about the people you would have killed?"

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," James whispers. He did not mean to interrupt and he has no right to try and defend his actions, but he cannot keep the words from spilling out.

"What did you _think_ would happen if you went back? You're not stupid, Bucky. I don't know what you are, but you're not stupid. And I've never thought of you as selfish, but I can't see how you were thinking of anyone else in this but yourself and whatever gratification you thought they would give you."

James can feel himself crying, which is only proving Steve's point. He is selfish, he has always been selfish, and despite what Steve said about stupidity, James must be an idiot if he thought he could hope to change that. At least Steve sees him now for what he is. He won't protest when James tells him he has to leave. He will welcome his absence.

Or so he should. In actuality, Steve is now on the bed beside him, holding onto James's hand. "Bucky? What's wrong? Bucky, come on, talk to me."

How is it that Steve is capable of listing all the flaws James possesses in one breath before comforting him in the next? Why would he want to? James cannot make sense of it, but he thinks that evil cannot really comprehend good.

"Please, Buck. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong. Please talk to me?"

Steve phrases it as a request. As though James does not owe him answers even after all James has done wrong. It makes him choke and sputter and it's all he can do to force out, "Selfish. I…selfish. Had…go back."

"What do you mean?" Steve is brushing the hair from his eyes and James cannot help but lean into the touch as if it's something he deserves.

"Selfish." His mind is a mess of emotions and sparks and, as is frequently—infuriatingly—the case, the words disappear beneath a haze of smoke. "Barnes was…after serum. Was mad you were better. Didn't need him. Selfish. And now…me…I'm bad too. And." He shakes his head, points to Steve. "Deserve better. Deserve real friend."

He stops the rambling, ugly mess that passes as language and waits. Waits for Steve's face to fall, waits to be struck. But Steve isn't going to strike him. He's too good to do that, even when he should. No, he'll step away and dismiss him and maybe even look into James's eyes when he does, and then he'll go and scrub at his skin until he's no longer soiled by their contact.

But he doesn't. He grabs onto James and pulls him so close that it hurts. "For God's sake, Buck." His voice is breaking. "That's normal. That's _human._ You aren't bad."

James tries to pull away—he has to make Steve understand—but he can't. Each time he tries the hold is tighter, the hand rubbing at his back firmer. "I _am_ bad—"

"Shh." It sounds like both consolation and an order. Steve is hugging too tight for James to see his face and determine the intent of the sound. "It's okay. You're confused. We'll help you. You're my best friend, Bucky. Whatever you think you did, it's okay."

"I'm self—"

"I asked you to come back into the war with me after you were tortured and used as a lab rat." Steve's pulled him so close he's going numb and James isn't sure if he should struggle or press into the feeling. "I could have had you sent home, but I wanted you with me. I knew you were traumatized but I let the battles distract me and just hoped it would work out okay. I worried more about Peggy's wellbeing than yours. You fell off that train trying to protect me. If you're bad and selfish then I'm a hundred times worse, you jerk. So just shut up and let me take care of you like I should have back then, all right?"

"I—" Steve never lies. But Steve is good. It has to be different; there must be a distinction that James is lacking. "Not understand."

"You're my best friend." He loosens his grip just enough so that their eyes meet. Steve's gaze is as steady and honest as ever. "You always have been and you always will be. When I realized you hadn't died—that was the first time since I woke up that I was doing anything more than just _surviving._ That I was actually living again. And whatever uncharitable thoughts you had after your world had been torn apart, or whatever you think while you're breaking through decades of brainwashing, could never make me think less of you."

James feels himself go limp in Steve's arms. He is experiencing an overload of thoughts and emotions, most of which he can't identify, and his body collapses under the strain. His head rests on Steve's shoulder, mouth working silently as he struggles to form coherent thoughts. "But—"

"Listen to me, Bucky, okay? This is important. I want you to repeat this. I am not bad. Say it."

He bites his lips; he is programmed to be honest.

"C'mon, Bucky. I know you can say it. I am not bad."

"I am…I am not bad?"

"Good." Steve's hand strokes through his hair before that arm loosens from around him. He locates James's own hand and intertwines their fingers, holding tight. "I know you don't understand it. But I want you to keep saying it, all right? Every time you think you're unworthy or that you've done something wrong. Just say it. We're going to help you through this, all of us, but you have to believe it too."

"I am not bad." Believe it? How can he? James shuts his eyes and tries to think of anything he has done that could be considered good. Dum-E had liked the stars. He turned the IVs back on so Rumlow would not feel pain. Lucky had seemed to enjoy being petted. Were those good?

"Perfect, Bucky. That's perfect."

Perfect. In spite of himself, James feels a fluttering in his chest at that. "I am not bad." If Steve thinks he is perfect, James can almost believe he could be good.


	54. Chapter 54

Sam retrieves the notebook James used weeks ago to record the list of upsetting things. He turns it to a blank page and hands James an ink pen.

"Pens used to look different," James remembers, turning it in his hands. He can't quite recall how they were different—more pointed on the writing end, perhaps?—but he is sure that they were.

"I don't doubt it." Sam places the notebook before him. "We're starting a new list. Once a day, I want you to write down something you like about Bucky Barnes."

"But I don't want to be Bucky Barnes."

"And you don't have to be. You can be anything that you want." He says this while guiding James's hand to the page, which seems to be a contradiction. "But you _were_ Bucky Barnes, and that's something you're gonna have to come to terms with. You've got this habit of rejecting ideas that don't fit into your pre-conceived worldview and since you think you were a bad person, we need to actively challenge that."

"I don't reject things." He thinks he might have declined to drink a soda once in the time that he's been here, but that is the extent of any rejection. Apart from trying to return to HYDRA. And disagreeing with Steve and everyone else about the character of Bucky Barnes. But those don't count; the others aren't privy to Barnes's thoughts the way James is.

"Uh-huh. So how is it that I introduced you to Tony Stark and you came away thinking his name was Howard?"

"You did?" That first morning in the tower seems so far away, though it hasn't yet been a month. Days are much longer now that James is regularly conscious for them.

"See, and this is what I'm talking about. Just write one thing for now. Anything."

 _Bucky Barnes was funny_ , James writes, because he was. James is still struggling to grasp the exact concept of humor. If there were one thing he'd want to emulate from his past self, he supposes it would be an understanding of comedy. "That's it?"

"I'm guessing you don't want to be called Bucky anymore?" Sam asks.

James hadn't considered that. He shouldn't _want_ to be; if he is distancing himself from that person, continuing to use the name can only be counterproductive. But there is something pleasant in having a diminutive of his name, like an audible sign of affection. He didn't have that as the Soldier. He was simply Soldier, or asset, or sometimes Winter Soldier. Technically, Soldier was the diminutive, but James doubts there was affection in its use. He doesn't think anyone had ever called him Winter. Or... _Winnie_? Winnie is almost familiar, a term he seems to have carried inside without conscious thought. Had someone called him Winnie?

"I don't care what I'm called." James sets the pen down. "He wasn't the only Bucky in the world. I think. And I like the way Steve says it."

"Okay."

*

"Did you ever have a dog?" Barton asks.

They are out of the tower. James is holding Lucky's leash with his right hand, left hand concealed by his glove. There has been a collective agreement that he looks sufficiently different enough now from the media images of the Winter Soldier to go outside without fear of arrest. There's also been an agreement that it's better for James to go out in the sunlight, supervised, than it is for them to inject him with vitamin D as HYDRA used to do.

James notices that Steve texts him much more frequently when James is out of the tower than he does when James is in it.

"I don't think so?" Neither the things he's read nor Steve's stories mentioned a dog. The only dogs in his memories are the kind that attack.

"You're good with them," Barton says.

They are walking to a yarn store, because James has run out. Barton, they have decided, will do the speaking if there is any speaking that needs to be done. James doesn't trust his ability to hold casual conversation with strangers yet, particularly strangers who are trying to sell him things.

"Do you feel guilty?" Barton asks as they stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

He feels guilty for worrying Steve and for having been a bad

[ _I am not bad_ ]

friend in the past. He doubts that is what Barton is referring to. "I don't know." He did not like killing people, and he does not like thinking about it now. But James isn't haunted by it the way he is by thoughts of his shortcomings as a person.

"It hasn't hit, then," Barton says. "You'll know when it does."

"Should I feel guilty?" Lucky puts his front paws on James's leg and he reaches down to pet behind the dog's ears.

"No, you shouldn't. You had no choice. Just promise you'll _say_ when you start to feel it, would you? You wouldn't be the only one who's been there. Me, Nat, all of us, we can help you through it."

"I promise." The light signals them to cross.

 _Bucky Barnes,_ James writes that evening, _got to choose the causes he fought for._ He had convictions. So does James, but his are about things like being human and not dying. To enter a war due to moral beliefs is a concept he can barely grasp.

He sets down the pen and goes back to the knitting needles.

*

Two sets of mittens, two pairs of socks and one sweater later, the paint on his nails is rather chipped.

Tony didn't understand why his sweater was fuchsia until James explained that Barton had called it Tony's favorite color. The list entry for that day had been _Bucky Barnes could understand sarcasm._

James's left hand is not quite capable of the small, delicate movements necessary to reapply nail color without also spreading the polish on his skin. Steve is an artist, so James gathers the polish and remover and heads to his floor of the tower.

"How many bottles of nail polish did Natasha buy you?" Steve rubs at his nails with acetone, the color coming off in streaks.

"Every color in the rainbow. And black and white."

"Did she buy you any other makeup?" A pause. Most of the polish is gone now. "I don't _care_ , just—I won't know how to apply it."

"She didn't." Though James has researched makeup online and the thought of having his face as a canvas, the ability to change his appearance on his own whims, is intriguing.

"What color do you want this time?" Steve asks once the green is fully wiped away.

James glances at Steve's shield, gleaming at the foot of the bed. "Like that."

He does not fully recreate the shield on any of James's nails—they aren't the right shape—but there are stripes of blue and red and white, and stars.

"Did we know anyone named Winnie?" James asks.

Steve has one of those smiles that is real but also sad. "That was what your dad called your mom. Unless you mean the bear?"

"Bear?"

"I'll show you later."

Winifred. Winnie. James is looking at his nails, but his thoughts are full of yarn and peppermint. Winnie _._ He has no way to be sure, but he doesn't think the name is a newly recovered memory. It seems that some things, as with the recollection of Steve, could not be fully wiped away.

Once his nails are dry, he writes _Bucky Barnes had a good memory._

*

There are cartoon based on the books about the Winnie bear that Steve introduced him to. James is watching one such film and trying to work out the meaning of the word "blustery" from context when Sam walks in.

"Eleven," he says.

James turns his head away from the Piglet stranded in the water onscreen. "What?"

"You have eleven friends." Sam counts on his fingers. "Me, Steve, Tony, Pepper, JARVIS, Dum-E, Butterfingers, U, Clint, Natasha, and Lucky."

"That is eleven." James nods, unsure of the significance.

"You said that there weren't a dozen people who'd be your friends, remember? You're just one away."

James has a twelfth friend: Rumlow. He does not mention this. The last time he brought up Rumlow and friendship and amnesty, Steve had led James back to the punching bags and asked him to please elaborate on Rumlow's positive qualities. He had then destroyed two of the bags and would have done more had James not refused to continue.

"Oh," he says, and returns his attention to the Hundred Acre Wood.

Romanoff enters just as the credits start and shakes her head at the television as James stands. "No. First of all, I can feel my blood caramelizing and secondly, the Soviet adaptations were better. Why'd you get up?"

James stares at his feet, unsure of why he's standing. "I—that's…what you do…for dames?"

"Not in this century." She commandeers the remote, pushing him back toward the couch as she sits. "You do watch things that aren't Disney, don't you?"

"Most movies are…restricted."

"TV?" She begins flipping through the options.

"I don't like commercials." Advertisements make bodies, particularly those of women, into commodities and objects. It's unsettling.

"You can fast-forward through those."

A shrug. Most television is also restricted.

"What about ballet?"

"What is ballet?"

Romanoff grins, presses something on the remote, and brings up a video. "This is ballet. You'd like it."

It is a film of a stage performance. There is a woman in a white gown, dancing. Her shoes are strange, elongated at the toe, and she can balance on them.

"I've seen ballet." The memory is in flashes. An opera box where his target is seated, drawing a garrote around the target's throat, glimpses of shoes like that on the performers below. "I had a mission."

"Did it involve tights?" Tony asks from the doorway. He is wearing the sweater. James is not sure how long he has been standing there.

Suddenly remembering an intense hatred for tights— _damn USO comics_ —James flips Tony the "bird" hand gesture.

"Well, excuse me, Coppelia. I just thought you might like dancing."

"I dance. Danced." James glanced back to the screen. The woman is no longer in the gown; her costume has changed and now it involves white feathers. "Not like this."

He can feel Romanoff's eyes on him. "Then how?"

At some point while he is teaching Romanoff to Lindy Hop, Tony disappears down the hallway. James registers the movement, but remains focused on the steps. Romanoff's right hand is on his shoulder, and his on her side. Their left hands are joined. "I start with my left foot, you with your right. Eight counts. And rock-step, triple step, walk, walk, triple step. Rock-step, triple step, walk walk, triple step."

Romanoff understands it immediately. He wonders if she danced ballet. He thinks she moves like a dancer, though he isn't sure how to articulate what that means. "And then what?"

"Then you get really good at that…" James begins again, but midway through he swings Romanoff back toward himself and flips her over his shoulder. She lands on her feet behind him. "And I do that. Things like that."

Romanoff sweeps her foot out and James is abruptly lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "Warn a girl before you throw her next time."

He nods. From the doorway, there is a sound of laughter. Tony has returned and Steve is with him.

"Can you do that?" Tony asks Steve. "Because if you can, I'm taking you clubbing. The both of you."

"Bucky was the dancer," Steve says. He crosses the threshold and helps James up. "I've never tried."

"But you and Agent Carter—" James cuts himself off. Steve froze days after James fell. There wasn't an opportunity for dancing. And of course by the time Steve had woken up, Peggy Carter had died. _Stupid, insensitive_ —

"I think she's got enough on her plate without me stepping on her feet." Steve has another of those sad smiles.

James tilts his head. "She's alive?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I didn't tell you?"

" _Twelve friends_!" Sam calls from somewhere down the hall.

He is not sure of Peggy Carter's birth date, but she must be very old. "Can she stand up? Can she walk?"

"She _can._ She doesn't often, but if she had to, she could. I should take you to see her, Buck, she'd be thrilled that you're—"

"And you haven't danced with her?" James feels what he thinks is indignation.

"I—"

"What the hell, Steve?" What the hell. It's an idiom, a crude emphasis, and suddenly it makes perfect sense. "You can't get a lady excited to dance with you and then not follow through!"

"Bucky, I don't think—"

"Yeah, obviously. Seventy years later and you're still clueless. This is your girl, here. You looked at each other like—like—look, she's gettin' dancing and flowers and if you won't do it, I'll have to."

Steve looks sheepish—as he damn well should—and also amused and other things James isn't sure of. "Bucky, I can't dance."

"No, you never bothered to learn." He rolls his eyes, grabs Steve's wrist. "You're such a punk, you know that? Here, I'll be the dame, you lead, and if you step on my feet, I'll slug you."

Steve does not step on his feet, but beyond that he is useless and doesn't begin to grasp the steps until the fourth or fifth walk through. It's a good thing Peggy Carter is too old for anything fast or vigorous, because James can't imagine trying to teach the man to jitterbug.

There is a sound of music, a humming, and James realizes it's coming from him. He pauses, both the sound and his feet, blinks. That song…it's a new memory, but it's clear. The song had been real popular when men were shipping out; he must have heard it at least a hundred times. "That's…that was 'We'll Meet Again.'" He glances to Steve. "Right?"

"That's right." Steve grins. His hand is still on James's waist and he pulls him into a hug. "That's exactly right. You've got it, Bucky."

James pushes lightly at his shoulder. "Well, one of us has to be on top of things. Now move back, you've got steps to learn."

 _Bucky Barnes,_ he writes later, _was bossy and had rude. But he still managed to be a good friend to Steve despite that._ He examines the entry, then crosses out the last two words. It doesn't feel as if Bucky Barnes had overcome poor qualities to be a friend; it is more like those qualities never mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Bucky's day, either fountain pens or dip pens would have been the standard. While ballpoint pens existed in his lifetime, they were not reliable and not widespread.
> 
> In 1969, Soyuzmultfilm made [a Russian animated adaptation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqdiEUp6s4E) of A.A. Milne's Winne-the-Pooh stories. It's cute, although quite different from the Disney films (for example, Christopher Robin does not appear). Then again, it also includes some things left out of the Disney adaptations, such as Winnie the Pooh being accidentally shot (but unharmed).
> 
>  _Coppelia_ is a ballet that involves a scientist making lifelike humanoid robots. The ballet that Natasha and James were watching was _Swan Lake_. And speaking of _Swan Lake_ , am I the only one who can't watch Sebastian Stan's scene in _Black Swan_ now without thinking, "Hey, it's Bucky and Jane Foster hanging out"?
> 
> Depending on which of Natasha's comic back stories you read, she was either a ballerina or had memories of being a ballerina implanted into her head. The step that James demonstrated to Natasha is a swing dancing move known as a [swing out.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsuE7gfH9_0) If you've never seen a Lindy Hop performance, they can get [quite intense and acrobatic. And impressive.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahoJReiCaPk)
> 
> ["We'll Meet Again"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY) was a 1939 song by Vera Lynn that became very popular during WWII, when men were being sent overseas.


	55. Chapter 55

"Bucky rides shotgun," Steve says when he ushers everyone to the SUV, and James is the only one to question it.

"Why?" As the Soldier, he tended to be kept at the back unless they needed him to fire from within the vehicle, but now he has no preference as to where he sits. James is simply, typically curious. It's a trait he's always possessed except for the times it was burned from his mind; _Bucky Barnes was curious_ is one of the entries on his list of pleasant things about his former self.

Former self. It's a fitting descriptor, but it still feels foreign on his tongue. The Bucky Barnes from the twentieth century isn't quite him, but in many ways they're almost exactly the same.

"Because you get carsick," Steve says, taking his place in the driver's seat. He begins adjusting the mirrors. "Or you did in your parents' car, all the time. The ride's less rough in the front."

James thinks cars move more smoothly now than they did seventy years ago. He also thinks without remembering that Steve must have been as skilled then at comforting the sick as he is now. He takes the passenger seat and from behind, Tony presses an object into his hand.

It's an iPod. James turns to face him. Tony and Sam are in the middle row of seats and Clint and Natasha have the back.

"My ride, my playlist," Tony explains. "Hook it up, would you?"

James isn't sure why he knows how to connect the iPod to the stereo, but he does. Perhaps Rumlow or another agent had done it in front of him or prompted him to do so. In James's room is a first draft of a letter to Rumlow. He explained in it that he could not convince any of the Avengers to offer amnesty, but that he would be willing to serve as a character witness. Only then Steve had said James wasn't allowed to do that, so now he has to re-write the letter.

It may be Tony's playlist but James thinks it's comprised of all their tastes: there is AC/DC but there is also Ace of Base, as well as songs in Russian that he guesses are meant for either him or Natasha. There is someone named Bruce Springsteen that makes Steve smile. James doesn't know who the Marvin Gaye songs are for.

He thinks he's beginning to see the appeal of AC/DC. It may be due to a wider exposure to music since last he heard them, or it may simply be the result of being a captive audience. But it's not just an explosion of sound now; there's an underlying structure and James can guess at its appeal. "That was good," James says once "You Shook Me All Night Long" ends, turning in his seat to face to Tony.

"Well, what do you know," is Tony's reply. "You're not totally hopeless after all."

James turns back. The current song is some form of rock music that he's not sure he was exposed to back at the tower. He can hear the anger dripping from the vocals; he doesn't catch all of the words, but "anarchy" is frequently repeated. "This is better," he decides, and from behind him Tony laughs.

"I called it. I _so_ called it. Told you you'd like the Sex Pistols."

James shrugs, settling back as the music washes over him.

Agent Carter is in an assisted living facility. Steve goes into her room before anyone else, carrying the flowers he'd retrieved after James said flowers were essential for dancing.

"You took your dates dancing without flowers all the time," Steve had said yesterday.

"They weren't my best girls," James had answered.

Steve's said that Agent Carter has good days and bad days, and if this is a bad day then they'll have to try again some other time. James isn't sure what constitutes a bad day but Steve knows, so he goes in first.

James waits on a bench in the hallway. He wonders if he has good days and bad days and if the day Sam and Tony let Steve first see him in the tower was a good one. He thinks that lately, most days have been good.

Steve steps into the doorway and nods, which signals Tony and Clint to head back to the SUV for the record player. The record player was James's idea; they could have used an iPod or a computer, but he said it was the principle of the thing. He isn't sure what exactly that principle is, but it's important. Steve and Peggy are going to get their dance and a smile starts on his face that fades just as quickly when Steve beckons him toward the room.

"She wants to see you, Buck. She thought you were dead."

"Me?" What had Bucky Barnes mattered to Agent Carter? He'd seen the way she looked at Steve.

"C'mon, don't keep a lady waiting."

His stomach sinks. The most James remembers of Agent Carter is a single encounter and a flood of negative emotions. What if he treats her poorly? He doesn't want to, but it wouldn't be the first time he's been casually cruel.

But Steve's hand is on his shoulder, steering James into the room. There are flowers everywhere and James wonders how many of the arrangements are from Steve's prior visits. Agent Carter is sitting in the bed. She is much older than she was in his memories. She is still very beautiful. She stares at James at first with shock, and then with something else he's not sure of. She looks still surprised, but also as though she may laugh.

"Sergeant Barnes." Agent Carter's voice is just as he remembers, smooth and low and beautiful.

"Ma'am."

"What on God's earth have you done to your hair?"

A smile does flicker on his face. If his arm weren't concealed by his sleeve and glove, he wonders what she would make of it. There is a chair by the bed and Steve guides him to it. "I was reclaiming myself," James says.

Agent Carter shakes her head. "You're revoltingly young, the pair of you," she says, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement that brings to mind the grandmother James has just remembered he once had. This time his smile stays.

"How are you, Barnes?"

"You can call me Bucky, ma'am." He's not quite Bucky—though the thought is no longer repulsive—but that was his preferred name in her day and she is old and possibly sick and he thinks Bucky Barnes was respectful toward his elders.

"And you can call me Peggy." She coughs and waves Steve away when he offers her a glass of water. "I feel I've told you that before, years ago."

"I—the fall made me…not well." That and everything after. He stares at the floor. Peggy Carter had helped to found SHIELD and he had been a part of HYDRA, rotting her dream from within. "I don't always remember things. I'm sorry."

There is something new and surprisingly soft in her face when James raises his head. He doesn't believe he ever thought her cold—professional, but not cold—but he cannot remember the gentleness he sees in her eyes. "That's all right, Bucky. You needn't apologize for that."

"Thank you, ma—Peggy."

"But you're still able to watch out for Steve, are you not? Heaven knows he needs someone with sense to keep him in line."

"Never had much of that myself," James says, and everyone is smiling.

Sam talks the staff into clearing out a lounge while Tony and Clint set up the record player. Natasha picked out a dress—where she found Peggy's measurements is a mystery, as Steve says he didn't supply them—and James and Steve leave the room so that she and the nurses can help Peggy into it.

"If you step on her feet," James says, "I'll have to slap you on her behalf."

"I'm not completely hopeless, Buck."

"You sure about that?"

When Peggy enters, aided by Natasha on one side and a nurse on the other, she is not wearing a red dress. It is a deep, rich green. She has the sweater she wore in the bed over top of it, and thick sleeves around her legs that James somehow knows are to prevent blood clots. But she pauses in the doorway and she is still so beautiful and for a moment, it's as if no time has passed since that day in the London bar.

The record plays a song James had selected, one from after his fall. "It's Been a Long, Long Time" is the title. Steve had flinched a little when James picked it out, but he didn't protest.

Peggy ends up leading, which James imagines is just what would have happened had they danced when the both of them were young. Neither is especially graceful, but Steve and Peggy both look happier than James can ever remember seeing anyone.

He thinks of lying broken in the snow, of struggling to remember what it means to be human. He thinks that maybe it was all worth it to see the two of them now.

When the dance ends Peggy is obviously fatigued, but she is almost glowing. She kisses Steve on the cheek and his eyes look wet when he leads her back to her room, but he is still smiling as well.

"You did good, Bucky," Sam says. The others all murmur agreement. For a second he resolves to write this down on the list when they return home, but those entries are for the Bucky Barnes from the twentieth century. Perhaps he can start another list, one consisting of things he likes about himself now. James wonders if that's egotistical, but he hasn't had an identity for seventy years and maybe it's okay to be a little self-centered. He had been in the forties, and Steve had said that wasn't bad.

James is starting the record up again when Steve returns. "I organized this shindig," he explains. "I think that deserves a dance, don't you?"

"With me?" Steve grins. "I thought you said I was hopeless."

"Natasha already turned me down."

She nods. "I make it a point never to dance if refusing means I get to watch Captain America do it."

"Besides." James reaches out, grabbing hold of Steve's hand. It's kind of funny: he had missed Steve from the fight on the bridge up to their reunion at the tower, but it's only now that they're always around each other that James realizes just how much he still misses him. It's not a sad feeling, but a desire to make up for lost time. There's a lot to make up for. "I'll take pity on you and let you lead."

Steve is, after all, the leader. Even when Bucky's broken mind had relied on hallucinations for stability, they had taken Steve's form. It's strange to think that was himself all along, the part of him that was too stubborn to bleed out in the snow. He hadn't held out forever, but neither had he faded away. His resilience was always with him, just waiting for the right push to resurface. That's one for the list: _Bucky Barnes was stronger than he thinks._

But Steve is shaking his head and placing his left hand on Bucky's corresponding shoulder, the dame's position. "Nah, I think it's time that you led, isn't it?"

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [Kana_Go's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kana_Go/pseuds/Kana_Go) art of this chapter here: [Dance](http://kanago.deviantart.com/art/Dance-499473237).
> 
> ["You Shook Me All Night Long"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lo2qQmj0_h4) is considered a gateway AC/DC song—it's one that you play to people unfamiliar with the band, because it tends to be well-received and well-known.
> 
> The Sex Pistols song that Bucky liked is ["Anarchy in the U.K."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qbmWs6Jf5dc)
> 
> Steve flinched at Bucky's suggestion of ["It's Been a Long, Long Time,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9nElRrtl70) because that was the record playing in his apartment when the Winter Soldier shot Nick Fury. The version of the song that Steve had was the Harry James and Kitty Kallen rendition from 1945.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this fic, whether you reviewed or bookmarked or just enjoyed the ride. I can't put into words how much your excitement and enjoyment for this fic has meant to me. I've said it before, but initially, I never intended this story to even cover the events of the film or go for longer than perhaps ten chapters. The final product is entirely thanks to the people who enjoyed this story enough to inspire me to keep on going for as long as I did. You're the greatest and I hope that the ending satisfies you. I have another (shorter, unrelated, more lighthearted) Captain America fic planned that I hope to start publishing this week; it will be under the title "Not That There's Anything Wrong with That."
> 
> Thank you all again. You guys mean the world to me.


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